Diaries of a Dragonborn
by REVOLuTiontte En Casca
Summary: Dear Diary, I will make sure to preserve you for future generations if: I'm still alive after all this gallivanting across Tamriel, and my back is not yet broken from carrying the Dragonborn's junk. Love, Lydia.
1. Chapter 1

Diaries of a Dragonborn

**Revised Big 'ol A/N: **Just a couple of things I feel you should know. Firstly, this fic is completed, so nobody's stopping you from barging through all 26+ chapters, but if you'd like to get the original experience, read one chapter with a day in between. You get leeway for the ultra-short ones. =P Secondly, this isn't meant to be taken too seriously, so I'm sorry if I get spellings or names off - though that doesn't mean I plan to write it shoddily. Thirdly, reviews, if you have the time, please leave me one or ten. =)

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Dear Diary,

Today was the first day of my life as the Dragonborn's (supposedly) housecarl.

It started off a normal day like any other, about a week ago. I trained the Jarl's son for a few hours, or at least tried to, the little brat. He swings like an elf and whines incessantly like the glow of a nirmroot when he gets tired. Over dinner later on, Jarress told me about the rumours that the Dragonborn had come, just like the inn bards sang! My first reaction was to laugh and chide him for getting drunk so early in the day, but he waved it off and said that the brother of his friend had seen the dragon slain by an orc. Well, I replied, very good for him, as dragons don't go down easy at all. He had found himself a strong warrior. But Jarress continued to blabber about yelling and strange blue circles. I promptly ignored him, as would any sane person, what less the housecarl under the great Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

Here we are at today, when I was introduced to the very man whose existence I had treated as a joke.

What can I say about him? There's just so much to say, and all of it is strange, I tell you, stranger than the dwarven tinkerers or the popularity of "The Real Barenziah", which I find good for only door-stopping and feeding fires.

He calls himself Three Point One Four One Six, or Three for short (as if I'd call him by his full name - so ridiculous!), though I think I'll just call him Dragonborn, or Dovahkiin, whichever goes fine by him. He's an orc of the dirty green variety, slightly shorter than regular orcs, half a head taller than me. He rarely speaks - he's very silent, even in his dealings with the shopkeepers - but when he does, his voice is... I don't know how to describe it. I think it's rough and low, like any orc's would be, and yet I cannot really say, as if I've forgotten already. It might be part of the whole Dragonborn business, that the Dragonborn's voice leaves no trace in one's mind, simply in one's body. Hah! I must make note to pay attention. I am no cheesebrain. Surely I can remember what my Thane's voice sounds like. And yet here I am...

He is a dual-wielding warrior who wears heavy armour and two maces. That, at least, gives me some comfort. Steel, muscles and blood I know, but not the occult or their spells. I have never been on good terms with that creep Farengar, and it is a relief that I do not have to spend my days with someone like him.

Even so, compared to the rest of him, I fear for my future. He is a brute and a berserker, albeit quiet. He charges off from place to place as if he is chased by invisible wolves, or driven on by some controlling spirit until he tires himself out. Panting, he still carries on. Somehow he regains his breath and repeats the process. Has he never heard of pacing himself? What if we come across bandits while the strength has left his legs, and the breath missing from his chest? That is only one of his oddities, though.

We went for a stroll (I cannot explain it as anything else) around Whiterun moments after being introduced to one another. Simply put, he shows no concern for his followers, running around without care like a child. He picks things off the land - weeds, mushrooms, snowberries - and stuffs them into a pouch. He walks with his head close to the ground, looking precisely for those things. When he sees an enemy, he begins swinging in the air wildly until they crash into each other. I fear that he is either prone to hallucination or poor in sight. He may as well be both. And he shouts so much! He shouts at the rocks. He shouts at the trees. He shouts in the air and at nothing and everything in general. It's always that one syallable: "Fus". Fus. What does that even mean? He certainly does not know, or at least didn't bother to answer when I asked him. I feel my head aching and my nerves a wreck from all the noise. Fus. Fus. Fus. Oh, diary, if only I could give you my ears, so that I would not need to listen!

The worst part about him, though, is that he is a despicable thief.

I am torn between outrage and painful laughter every time he attempts to steal. Bear in mind that this is an orc decked in heavy armour, who clinks and clanks if he so much as breathes. There he is, kneeling down and expecting me to follow (which I do, very grudgingly, as he is ultimately my lord and I was commanded by the Jarl to follow his word), and the most amazing part is how he gets away with it. Everything that isn't nailed down: shields, wine, potions - oh so many potions - coins by the jarful, cheese, bread... and nobody notices. Nobody. I wanted to scream so badly out of utter confusion. I have no idea how it happens, but it does. What's even more humiliating is that he expects me to carry the loot of his rottenness - me, a housecarl, born and bred a warrior, a Nord woman through and through, now a pack mule for the spoils from my own people! Dear diary, one of these days, so help me Talos if I smash his head in with his own mace. It is with the pride of a Nord woman that I bear my load, of course. I can carry my weight, and the Dragonborn's too, like any man can (and should), and I carry it out of loyalty to the Jarl. It is the duty sworn to me, to protect the Dragonborn and to be at his service... and if people catch on to his crimes, he will need it.

I have heard the stories of how he slayed the dragon and, I kid you not, absorbed its soul. How that works is beyond me. I don't think I'll believe a word of it until I see it for myself. Even if I do, I don't think that's enough to redeem him in my sight.

Still, this is only the first day. Who knows what awaits in my new life?

I'm willing to guess: mushrooms, deafening roars, and more weight-lifting.

Love,

Lydia


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Diary,

I am now convinced that the Dragonborn is not normal. And I'm not talking about chosen-one-not-normal. I'm talking about seriously not normal.

First off, though, I should explain what he is, in case I forget (not likely, but you know how it is with weapons and heads). The Dragonborn is a hero of legend who can use a power called the Voice. It focuses their strength, or something, and projects it via their voice, just like dragons and their fiery breath. Dragons can resurrect if killed only conventionally; the Dragonborn, in addition to his Voice, can absorb the felled dragon's soul and thus kill it permanently, gaining its power in the process. He is the newly-made Thane of Whiterun, due to his heroic act of saving the town in said manner, and, for most intents and purposes, my lord (ugh).

I'm writing this in the middle of nowhere as we speak. You see, the Dragonborn enjoys trekking of the direction-less variety. It's as if he feels nothing carrying the weight of his armour, though that may be in part because I'm carrying everything else. We left Whiterun in the morning and followed the dirt path to… here. We're on the edge of a forest and I've built a small fire, because if I didn't, he would certainly not. I mean, who sleeps like that? One moment he's prancing around like a fairie and the next, he stops stock still, staring into space. And what happened was – you won't believe this – he fell asleep in his armour. Standing up. Just like that, without care for any wild beasts that might attack, rain or shine, bandits or rogue wizards. He just stopped. He didn't say anything to me either! As good of a fighter as he is, not even the Dragonborn can escape death while being completely unconscious.

I will grudgingly admit that he fights well, though the lack of reservation in killing is disturbing. In the late afternoon, we ran into a pack of wolves. More precisely, we spotted them. Without a word, he withdrew his maces and charged at them, dispatching all five one swoop after the other. They slashed at his waist and legs with a vengeance. He did not care. Either he has some extremely good armour or extremely thick skin. Maybe it's a Dragonborn thing, the ability to ignore pain, because those wounds looked painful. So he kills the pack of wolves without a word and proceeds to skin them, one by one, and it's strange how fast he did it. It felt as if all he had to do was wave a hand and off the pelt went.

Later on, we ran into a fort of bandits. We were outnumbered ten to two, and that was only considering the ones patrolling outside the gates. They saw us and came after us. We were easy pickings after all. The Dragonborn turned to run, the only sensible thing I've ever seen him do, only to turn back after leaving the fort some distance and charging back at them, maces swinging like mad. That was when I understood how this man could have felled a dragon.

My guess is that his retreat was a tactical choice, to avoid the archers that would have been the end of us. He lured them away from the group and, when they were all grouped together, he shouted:

"_Fus_!"

The grass rippled and the trees shook as the wave of force burst and slammed into them. Standing right behind him, I could feel the power push against my limbs. Was this the power of the famed Voice? There was no time for that, though. He ran forward; so did I, and we swung and hacked for our lives. Now that we're not dancing on the border of life and death, I notice that the Dragonborn's style is surprisingly, almost painfully basic. It's the same swings every time. A swing with the left, or a swing with the right, or some outwards-ripping swing with both. Sometimes he does a series of swings, finishing with a spectacular spin that would knock out even the most hardened battler... if he actually made contact with the enemy's head rather than missing wildly. Even so, I was impressed with his endurance. Apparently, his lack of sensitivity applies to swords as well. I saw clearly how they tore at his armour, how the blood spilled out. It would take the will of a Nord forefather to push on with those injuries.

Just when I'm about to go over and help him, he turns to me and tells me in that non-voice of his to give him all the food.

I believe I attempted to say "What?", like any normal person would, except that my mouth was dry and my head was spinning. I had been careless and there was a long gash along my right arm, where a rogue got lucky with a dagger before getting intimate with the tip of my sword.

Somehow, I manage to process it and obey. He takes all the loaves of bread - eight, ten, twelve, it doesn't matter - and the raw meat he stole from the pantries of Whiterun's citizens, and the cheese, and begins to eat them all.

Let me take a moment to assure you that yes, this is all true. No, I have not been eating the Dragonborn's mushrooms. Yes, the Dragonborn went and ate a small sackful of food. In the middle of a fight.

And the most amazing part was that his wounds began to heal, right in front of my eyes.

The scratch on his hand, the deep cut on his back, the exposed, torn area around his thigh. As he stuffed his mouth, the wounds closed, not fully, but still! How can you explain that? How can anyone explain that? Perhaps it is an ancient magick, though the fact that it runs on groceries is laughable and utterly ridiculous. Perhaps the Dragonborn has greater latent powers than the legends know of. Perhaps Talos decided to visit and bless him, heavens know why though. I don't know. I don't want to know.

His wounds heal just enough for him to finish the battle, and there we stand, the two of us, bathed in blood and surrounded by the slain.

He looks at me and then raises his hands. They fill with light, bright, yellow, blessed. I know what that is - the "Healing Hands" spell that Farengar dispenses to the sick when paid enough. I close my eyes, heart pounding, trying to brace myself to receive this magic...

...and it never comes. I risk a look and find him basking in it, like a pig in slop.

Sure, he took the brunt of the damage, and yes, it is his magic after all, but one would expect one to be more appreciative of the companion that risked her life for his aimless prancing - which got us into this mess in the first place!

Strangely enough, I am fine now. The gash is gone, as with any scratches and soreness. Maybe not the soreness, but my wounds are no longer here. It must be because of him. Thankfulness to whom - or what - thankfulness is due, I say, and I am at peace with not understanding how in the name of daedra this came to be.

He stripped the dead of their armour and weapons. We obtained around two hundred gold coins, which is twice as much as I have saved up. I don't know what he wants to do with all the leather boots and helmets, but at least they're light. The extra swords are just pointless. He only has two arms. It's not like he'll sprout more like an octopus, right?

Of course not. No. No, I say, and do you hear me, Mother Gaia? No! This cannot be, and if he does, I swear that I will lop off every single one and some.

Even so...

I'll kill the fire and hide under the pile of extra suits. The beasts know better than to come near the scent of bandit, and bandits know better than to come near a pile of fresh loot, for fear of the looter. It is time to sleep, and, if I am lucky, when I wake up, I will be in my barracks in Whiterun, thankfully free from the incomprehensibility that is the Dragonborn.

Love,

Lydia


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Diary,

Something strange happened today. Or didn't happen. How do I put this? It's something which I strongly felt had happened, even though it never did, because if it did, I wouldn't be writing this, and my corpse would be rotting with the Dragonborn's.

We were overladen with the loot from yesterday. Somehow we had made it safely through the night, and somehow, the Dragonborn had had enough sense to deal with his junk before proceeding further. We began the long trek back to Whiterun, a bit of a slow hobble due to all the weight on our backs (more on mine than his, I will note). I'm rather pleased with how well I'm handling this, to be honest. For one, my patience, while wearing thin, is still there, and so is my back. I obey like any housecarl would, but I make it a point to give him the same line, every time, whenever he asks to trade items: "I am sworn to carry your burdens", in the most unwilling tone that I can muster. Even he would get the hint, ultimately, as long as I keep it up, and I feel a bit vindicated at being able to snap back at him.

An hour or so of walking after, we passed a giant with its woolly mammoths, two of them, and that's where the strange incident comes in.

What we did do was sneak up to the fire pit and steal (the Dragonborn, not me) some bowls of mammoth cheese, as well as crack the chest to get a new piece of armour and more gold, before slinking away. What I remember, though, was that we tried to take on the giant as well.

You must remember that this never happened, of course. It's just my imagination. What else could it be? Details are blurred here and there, but on the other hand, for a figment of my imagination - or perhaps a slow-developing insanity from mistreatment - it's frightfully coherent.

In my version, the giant spotted us as the Dragonborn sneaked up to the chest. I must say that he is quite deft with his fingers for such a brute, or maybe he's just extremely lucky, because he managed to pick open the lock after a mere three tries (five in actuality). The giant, as all giants do when they feel challenged, began to stomp his feet and wave his arms dangerously. The Dragonborn either did not notice or did not care, and took the loot with a single swipe before standing there like the idiot he is. The giant had had enough and charged forward.

I had no choice but to draw my blade. Giants are very strong creatures, capable of felling evergreens and even houses with a few swings of their oaken clubs, and they stand twice as tall as a man. As housecarls, we had been taught about them, and were prepared as best as we could to deal with them in case we ran into them during patrols or some such. The giant is weak to fire, and its face is the place to strike, but I was neither a mage nor twelve feet tall. So I swallowed, braced myself and swung for the cartilage under its kneecap. Its skin proved too tough for my blade, so I tried a stab instead, to slightly better avail. The idea was simple: cripple it so that it could not chase us, and run (or, in hindsight, hobble), dragging the idiot Dragonborn away with me.

I risked a look at the jerk who got us into this mess in the first place. Something had changed about him. His eyes, though small, were clearly reddened, as if he had been crying, and the muscles around his face and neck looked constrained. His mouth was agape and he was panting heavily. It took a while to register, but when he started to fight, I realized what it was - he had gone into a trance, a rage, like the awakening of a primal beast within him. The legendary strength of the orcs was revealed to me in that flash - the speed at which he swung was blazingly fast, faster than any I have ever seen, and he took a slap to his side the same way a wall would - no reaction whatsoever. I was torn, then, between telling him to use magic, the best way, as per our training, letting him do his own thing, and yelling at him to take care. Because even in his frenzy, he was not invulnerable, and the cracks and thuds of breaking bones... I know that this is all just a dream, but my heart ached more than my arms, I can tell you. There's something about those snaps that get to you right in there. You know, like how your eyes water a bit when you see a big splinter in someone else's foot.

Then, the giant landed a blow right across his head, and the Dragonborn was knocked a good five feet off the ground. I rushed to him, screaming, maybe even crying. Who would not at the death of a companion, a lord, despite all his shortcomings? But my brain in its disciplined coldness knew that he was dead. Nobody could have survived a blow like that, no, not even the crypt-dwelling Draugr, and they've already died once.

...and then I wake up to find myself at the camp site, sleeping under a pile of loot, with the Dragonborn standing next to me, safe, sound and decidedly alive.

We then pass through the plains, reach the giant's fire pit, and steal his food and goods. We see the giant turn towards us and sprint away as fast as we can. (Of course we would. Why wouldn't we?) and arrive at Whiterun unharmed.

I really don't know what to make of this. The Dragonborn was silent as usual, and of course I didn't tell him about it. I would sound like a babbling idiot, and he's supposed to be the crazy one, not me. Yet there was something off about him for the rest of the day. But what do I know? All I see is his back.

I don't know. I feel silly for worrying about him, but I'm surprised that I worried about him at all.

I should really consider stocking up on fresh supplies when we get back to Whiterun. I blame the bad diet. Yes, that's it.


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Diary,

We are headed for the Mages' College in Winterhold because, and I quote, "there are lots of good alchemy ingredients to steal there".

I'm trying very hard to stop myself from asking the boring questions such as "What the hell are you going to the College for?" and "Is he crazy?". I know the answers to those already: to steal alchemy ingredients, and yes, a thousand times yes, as surely as snow is white and grass is green.

I don't have any objection to alchemy itself. I have never needed potions, but knowing that they're available is reassuring. Their healing power is the closest we non-mages can get to fast recovery, and it's great to not have to rely on those spineless cloak-wearers in the flash between life and death. They sell, therefore, at very high prices, and the art of potion-crafting is a lucrative one, if the rumours surrounding Arcadia are anything to go by. I don't have any knowledge of it, but the Dragonborn does. Is there anything he can't do? Oh wait, there is - how about acting sensibly, or being a law-abiding citizen?

The Dragonborn has a set methodology, as with everything else he does. He picks flowers and berries and mushrooms and collects them. Every so often he finds birds' eggs and nirmroot and slightly more exotic things, and positively leaps at them. Have you ever seen a grown man running around trying to catch butterflies? I sure have. Childish behaviour aside, I don't think the idea of respecting the land has occurred to him before. Forgive us, o Mother Earth, for though he knoweth what he be doing, he could not care less.

When he collects a certain amount, he proceeds to sample them, one of each.

That explains a lot, doesn't it?

Watching him subject himself to assorted effects all in one go is interesting, to say the least. Most of the time, he ends up blurting "Ugh!" or "Argh!" in pain, but what do you expect for eating something with names like _Bleeding Crown_ and _Namira's Rot_? Yes, dear diary, I know at least the names of certain plants. Any child with a parent with sense would, since it's survival skills, though the more important part of the lessons is learning the effects of ingestion, i.e, what you're not supposed to eat. And the Dragonborn is intent on learning it the hard way. I just hope that when he has to deal with after-business, he has the grace to find somewhere suitably far away and hidden from sight.

It must be noted that he never samples the same ingredient twice. He somehow has the ability to discover the effects of his ingredients, though he often frowns at them as if there were more to it. I'm not saying that there isn't, though, since I know next to nothing about alchemy. Given the way he does it, though, you could forgive me for thinking the same of him.

It was in Arcadia's shop that he started work. Out of the goodness of her heart, or maybe an elaborate business tactic, she let him use the alchemy table. From what I could see, all he did was toss two items and mash them together with a mortar and pestle. He would gently pound the ingredients into a pulp, then pause to swill the contents, and then continue. I must have blinked, because the next moment, there's a small flask of liquid on the side of the table. He poured the liquid so quickly! Hold on, where did he get the flask? And I'm dead certain that no amount of pounding would reduce that much material into smooth liquid.

Being the logical woman that I am, I came to the conclusion that the Dragonborn did not, in fact, have amazing skills with alchemy. No, he was merely dabbling in it, the same way a fish would try to fly, and that "potion" of his was nothing more than forest gunk.

Imagine my reaction when he turns to Arcadia and sells the results of his labour for a tidy sum of gold, and she accepts all of them without batting an eyelid. Arcadia, master alchemist, whose eyes are no doubt sharp when it comes to potions, handing over honest money for the work of his hands.

I'll give you a hint: I didn't have any, because I didn't know what to do. What are you supposed to do in this sort of situation? Stand there as if it were perfectly all right, for some desecrator of nature to stroll in and create bottled life with a little nudge and stir, and to not say anything, anything at all?

Even the sweetest mead is made in kegs in cellars without any intervention, and the richest stews cooked over a slow, unattended fire. I can only trust that his skill with alchemy is an extension of that principle, that the ways of the natural work best on their own. Because I refuse to believe that the potions he makes are related to any skills on his behalf. It must be sheer luck that the ingredients mesh and mold into each other so easily.

Then again, Arcadia isn't exactly perceptive, as I've come to find out. The Dragonborn, unsatisfied with the good grace given to him, snuck up behind her and cleared the shelves of display wares. When all that was left were the goods in her visible sight (and he would not spare even those!) he dragged them off the table to behind her, waited... and then took them. And Arcadia is staring forward with a vacant look, eternally prepared for the customers which hardly come. She must have been daydreaming, because anyone with half their senses working would turn at the scratch of a spell tome across counter. But not her.

Note to self: do not trust the Dragonborn's potions just because Arcadia finds them legit enough to buy. Arcadia, clearly, is not the best yardstick when it comes to judgement.

Second note to self: pounding mushrooms in a mortar and pestle does not equate potion, after all, if my little bowl of mixture is anything to go by. It must be the table, then. It must be... but why?

Dear diary, I have a new appreciation for you. You're simple, and the way you work is so straightforward, unlike the world and, it seems, everything I know about it.


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Diary,

Maybe it's the different climate of the far east, or I'm finally caving in to the craziness of it all, but I woke up this morning decidedly cranky. It's only been a night, but it feels like I've slept for a few days on end. It's weird, since I've never actually slept for more than twelve hours, not even as a child. Hard work and a healthy and rigorous training schedule don't leave much room for slack, you see.

Our visit to the College of Winterhold was surprisingly uneventful, though it wouldn't be good to not mention it at all. We took the coach to Winterhold (thankfully!). I fell asleep on the way, but I woke up when we got there because of the cold. The villagers mumbled something about blaming the magicians for the never-ending winter, and I don't find that hard to believe, frankly. Ah, yes, and that brings to mind another thing: turns out the Dragonborn is talkative after all. He has a habit of shuffling into people in his running gait, and somehow manages to initiate conversation with whomever he collides into. Often it's just a "Hello" or "Hey", though sometimes the villagers air heavier grievances. Actually, it may not be that the Dragonborn's talkative. It could be the villagers instead.

We reached the College with little difficulty. Despite all the snow, it isn't that hard to spot the giant castle casting shadows across the town. There was a gatekeeper, whose name I cannot remember, who challenged us to an examination before we could be allowed to enter. It may surprise you to know that I actually wholeheartedly agree with this procedure. It's just not natural to stampede your way into town halls and houses, much less an established (if not suspicious) College. The Dragonborn, who has no sense of boundary or barrier, did not seem to agree. They had a bit of discussion and he proceeded to Shout at a tile on the floor. He would have lifted the hem of her skirt if they were not so heavy, the lecher, but I don't think that was what he had in mind. The gatekeeper was suitably impressed and lets us in. It's funny what being the chosen one does for you, huh?

I won't lie: I was more fascinated than uneasy with the trappings of the College. There were large wells with beams of blue magic coursing through it, striking the heavens, all over the place. Magic wells aside, the courtyard was somewhat shabby, though I couldn't possibly say it out aloud because of all the magicians there. Everyone was dressed in mages' robes, heavy, black things that looked like they kept the cold out better than our plate armour. Still, I put on a brave face. I would not have myself patronized by a group of spineless bookworms, on my pride as a Nord. I mean, it tells you a lot about magicians as a whole when the senior faculty of the central college in Tamriel spend their days loitering about in the snow.

The Dragonborn made passing conversation to most of them and proceeded to stroll inside. The speed at which he passed through the corridors was regrettable. I didn't get to see much after that; it was a blur between hugging brown walls and being ordered to sneak around in broad daylight. Long story short, the Dragonborn cleared the shelves of every room on every layer. Highlights include: crouching in the room of this old man, waiting for minutes on end for him to turn his back just once so that he could steal a dagger; jumping up and down on the bed, trying to reach a handful of Nightshades on a particularly high shelf; and somehow being offered a chance to enroll, though he turned it down. He left the gates of the College, apothecary pouch considerably fuller. I left the gates of the College with a cramp building up in my legs from all the squatting.

These days, we've been wandering the hills south of Winterhold. We visited the Shrine of Azura, which had an amazing view of everything below - mainly tundra, which in itself is not all that amazing, but you get the idea - and the aurorae, which is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The Shrine itself is large, larger than Talos' monument in Whiterun, but much more creepy, seeing as Azura is a daedra, and nothing good ever comes from those. There was some sort of witch there, but the Dragonborn ignored her completely. Good on him, I say.

Somehow, I feel that the Dragonborn's been acting different. I can't quite say, since I don't really know him all that well. How long has it been? A few weeks? A few months? I'm worried that I've lost my sense of time, what with one thing after another, and all of this walking. Day and night pass by with no consequence or progress. Lack of discipline is said to rot your bones, and I can see why... but there's a carefree quality to life like this. You have the poets, the writers and the bards who don't do a day's worth of honest work singing about the joys of life and humanity and all that blabber, and then you have the Dragonborn. It makes you wonder whether there's a life beyond farming or fighting.

Then, of course, I'm reminded that there's a rebellion raging all around us.

When we first started out, the Dragonborn didn't have any alliance to Imperial nor Stormcloak, just like our Jarl. The only distinction, in fact, is that he shows less reservation in killing the latter.

One time we stumbled across a group of Thalmor. You know, the real rulers of the Empire, elven elitists, the ones who tried to ban Talos worship. There were three of them, Justicars from their robes, and they were escorting a prisoner. It was a chilly afternoon, and he was wearing nothing but a shroud. He was no better than a walking corpse - no, the Draugr at least do not feel cold. His only crime was probably being caught worshipping Talos. We're passing by them as we trot along the road, picking up snowberries and skinning the occasional wolf, elk or bear... and the Dragonbron brushes past them, insensitive idiot as he is.

Then he looks at the prisoner, turns to me, and for the first time, I see the hint of life in his eyes.

Of course, the Thalmor are ready to draw their swords - who wouldn't if a stranger suddenly walked up to your captive? And their suspicion is rightly founded, because that's when the Dragonborn shoves a hunk of bread into the prisoner's hands and frees him.

I have to admit, I felt a twinge of pride when he did that, be it out of compassion to the prisoner or disgust of the Thalmor. He couldn't have offended them more if he had spat in their ugly elven faces. The prisoner runs as far as his frail body can take him, and we draw our swords. Bear in mind that my loyalty is only to Whiterun and to the Jarl; I had absolutely no trouble attacking the men who've put Skyrim in the bind it's currently in. There were two swordsmen and one spellcaster, but all of them were wearing cloth robes. Most of their fury was directed at the Dragonborn, and again I witnessed his amazing endurance, taking on a faceful of fire magic and taking out the spellcaster with a single, critical blow. We managed to wipe out the group without the use of restoratives - food - what have you - but by then, the prisoner had gone without a word. At least a word of thanks would have sufficed. Sheesh.

After we stripped them of their belongings, I had to ask him why he did it. Attacking the highest authority (aside from the daedra) in Tamriel isn't something that occurs to normal people, after all. I wasn't expecting anything, yet to my surprise, he actually answered:

"Because I was once a prisoner too."

That was all he would say, but it was enough.

It's funny to think that it's in the most blizzard-ridden part of Skyrim that the Dragonborn starts to warm up to me. Now, if I could somehow curb his kleptomania, and maybe have him carry his own damn spare armour...


	6. Chapter 6

Dear Diary,

The Dwemer are a mysterious race indeed. They built metal machines that move on their own, as if they had life, lived underground and have never been seen since. One of their curses, so it is said, is "may you live in interesting times". Don't you think that's worth thinking about? What qualifies as "interesting"? Certainly now would be a good candidate, what with the war and chaos all about, and yet I can say safely that my old life in Whiterun was peaceful, nay, even normal. I suppose then that "interesting" doesn't apply unless you're in the right situation with the right people.

Just so that you won't feel cheated, no, we haven't run into any Dwemer machinery (or Dwemer themselves), simply that the Dragonborn has found himself a new suit of armour of Dwarven build. It's gilded and bronze-coloured and he could pass off as a Dwemer machine himself, since it makes loud clinking noises whenever he moves. The body armour looks fine, but the helmet is rather silly-looking. The Dragonborn, possibly sharing the sentiment, kept his old, less-sturdy horned helmet. Guess who wears the silly-looking Dwarven helmet now? Did someone say Lydia? Fantastic! You win nothing. It's an enchanted piece of armour which, supposedly, boosts archery skills. Which, in turn, does absolutely nothing for me. But a helmet is a helmet, and being picky about fashion is unbecoming of a Nord woman. No, it's unbecoming of a Nord warrior, I should say. We girls have our secret indulgences, after all, and the pair of fine clothes, a rich maroon, Imperial silk, I bought from Camilla comes to mind.

I've been doing a lot more thinking lately. I guess it really is an effect of the countryside. It's hard to not let your mind wander when the grass of the field and the hills of the earth are spread out before you, each day, in wild abandon - that is if you can ignore the clunking hulk zigzagging along the paths, picking every flower he sees. I've noticed that the Dragonborn seems a lot stronger than he used to be. We've been on the aggressive, clearing old forts and outposts overrun by bandits, like some sort of vigilante patrol. It's actually rather fulfilling. After all, almost everyone has had at least one unsavoury experience due to bandits, or just nuisances who steal things.

The irony is as thick as a blacksmith's anvil, but I'm willing to waive it for the sake of my emotional wellbeing.

Every so often, the Dragonborn snaps into a trance. His eyes roll upwards and he just stands, stock still, looking toward the heavens. He doesn't do it very often. Usually, it happens after a particularly long fight or a session of intense blacksmithing. Oh, yes, that's right, turns out that not only can he make potions, he can build armour, too. Insert quip about him stealing equipment when he could make them like a proper, law-abiding citizen here.

The thing is, though, that all he crafts is leather helmets. Yes, they're the easiest to make, and the materials needed are plentiful, but I don't really see the logic behind it. A few pieces of tanned leather, and a few more pieces of leather strips, and somehow, with the furnace and the anvil and I have no idea how, a helmet is the result. I haven't fully recovered from the disbelief of his potion-crafting episode, so it doesn't help that this was a cut above.

You see, when he makes leather helmets, he makes several in one go, blurringly fast. You'd think that one would have to spend time molding it into shape, or hardening the material so that it can withstand blows, but no - a single tap of the anvil is all he needs to yield a product, and he abuses his speed like an underpaid matron to a brat. Before I knew it, our stock of leather was completely gone, replaced by a barrelful of hats. He goes on to sell the lot, and we move on, but not before he goes into his trance. For some reason, I imagine stars in his eyes. His head is certainly in the clouds, that much I can say.

Oh, yes, and we ran into a dragon.

The Dragonborn visits two places whenever he wishes to unload his spoils: Whiterun and Riverwood. It seems that he has friends in the latter - Aldur the blacksmith, I think that was his name, and the owner of the dinky general goods store. Aldur, I recall, was the one that housed the Dragonborn when he was on the run from Helgen Keep - that's what he told the Jarl, at any rate, so there's a bond of favour between them. Or, of course, he's just going there because the citizens of Whiterun don't have enough capital to buy his goods off him.

While we were hiking back to Riverwood, following the river, we heard a screech above us. Circling the air was a black, monstrous dragon. I tensed up immediately, and was prepared to drop the heavy loads so that I could fight properly, when the Dragonborn comes over and gives me a bow and a single arrow. The message was obvious, despite me not being a very good shot. Still, orders were orders, even if it meant that I could only fire once. I slung the quiver behind my back, drew the bow and aimed. If I only had one shot, I had to make it count. Hoping that the enchantment would kick in, I took a deep breath and let fly.

It grazed the airborne beast in the leg, to no apparent effect.

I was about to scream at the Dragonborn when the dragon landed and roared. The Dragonborn was already circling the beast, double maces swinging wildly at its wings. The dragon turned around quickly and engulfed him in flames. The Dragonborn Shouted in return, actually stunning it for the briefest of moments. Maybe it was the urgency, or maybe force of habit, but I found myself reaching for another arrow, the arrow that was not there...

...except that it was. My fingers felt cold steel. I didn't hesitate and fired again. And again, and again, and again, not daring to look back at the quiver of endless supply, lest I break whatever stroke of mad luck happening to me.

Now that the dragon was on the ground, all of my shots hit their mark. I didn't know whether the tips managed to pierce that thick hide. All I could do was fire. And somehow, it worked - after our merciless barrage of blows, the dragon, bleeding green, cried out its final cry and collapsed.

Panting, I watched as the Dragonborn stood, silent, maces unsheathed. Somewhere, somehow, was the faintest suggestion of war drums, but I paid no attention to it - no, all of my focus was on him and the dragon.

The body began to glow, dissipate like boiling water. It burned and crackled into a golden mist that was carried away with the gust that followed, enveloping the Dragonborn, and I realized then that this was it - he was, as the legends had said, absorbing the dragon's very soul.

We stood for the longest moment, watching the remaining flesh crackle into ash, leaving only the pure white skeleton. Finally, he moved and extracted something from the corpse - a few bones and pieces of skin that, miraculously, survived the ordeal.

Then he turned to me and said, "Carry these for me."

And I replied, too stunned to say anything else, "I am sworn to carry your burdens."


	7. Chapter 7

Dear Diary,

Turns out that the Dragonborn has been dodging an appointment with the Greybeards all this time.

He told me, "We're going to Ivarstead", and I asked him why. He explained.

I can think of a few words that adequately express my feelings, but none of them are becoming for a Nord woman, and I'd hate to tarnish you. You've stuck with me all this while, kept me reasonably sane. To write those words would be akin to smearing troll droppings on you.

He's been putting his destiny on hold for Talos' sake (don't look at me like that, I only just found out too)! He sure never told me that the Greybeards had called to him, summoning him to that dreadfully tall castle up on the Throat of the World. I thought it was just a thunderstorm. But no, it was in fact a magical call from a bunch of avalanche-causing recluses. Does the power of the Voice come with stupidity packaged? Well, Ulfric Stormcloak is said to have the Voice too, and he's also said to have used it to kill the Emperor. That has to mean something.

I mean, what's wrong with using regular post? Just get a courier or a messenger hawk, no need to go and send tremors all over the bloody snowy mountain! Just because you have power doesn't mean you get to do as you please, especially when it means being a trouble to others, else we'd all be at each other's necks by now, with swords and magical bolts in some humongous war...

...just because others are doing it doesn't mean you should! That's the point.

The reason why I'm so worked up is because my sister lives in Ivarstead, tending to our aunt who suffers from frail nerves. Every time the Greybeards make so much as a peep, the echoes are enough to put her into a twitching fit,and the calming potions cost an arm and a leg. You can see how knowing about the Greybeards catches on quickly. It's possibly the worst place to be with her condition, but we don't have enough money to move them out. Anyhow, this is what they are:

The Greybeards are an ominous group of Voice users who live up on High Hrothgar, researching and devoting themselves to the Way of the Voice. In other words, all they do with their time is yell at each other instead of doing something useful like farming or whatever. When they speak, so much power is released that it causes earthquakes, and when you've got that much trembling on top of a tall place, things are bound to be dislodged. It's just a pity that the only thing yet to have been dislodged is their castle. I mean, it's just so impractical. Imagine not being able to talk (or being able to but wrecking everything around you when you do) just for the sake of some "way". I wonder how they communicate, or at least, I would if they weren't such a bother. Maybe they pass notes to each other. Dunno, don't care.

No, wait, I do care, because the Dragonborn and I are headed there for a meeting.

You know, now that I've put things into perspective, I'm not that cheesed at the Dragonborn for ignoring them for so long. Serves them right, the loony crooks, to be served a taste of annoyance, see how they like it. Doesn't make having to meet them face-to-face any more pleasant, though. At least I'll have the Dragonborn with me. Compared to their lot, he's actually a comfort to be around.

But I do wonder what went through his head to decide to finally respond. I mean, he's the Dragonborn, with the responsibility of ending the dragon onslaught. Entire villages are burning with each passing day a dragon is not slain, and he's put all of that on hold while he goes on vacation, collecting butterflies and visiting historical landmarks like some green-nosed scribe. Ulfric Stormcloak isn't doing anything about them. The Thalmor sure as hell aren't. And the rest of us who want to can't. Has it ever occurred to him that this isn't a game? Maybe it has. Maybe it has, which is the reason why we're headed for Ivarstead. Or, and I quote, "I need more Shouts." It's not the best outcome, but I can be content with him finally doing something.

He stocked up on equipment before we left, or, in other words, bought as many health potions as Arcadia had to sell and stole whatever new stock was on the shelves. After another bout of potion-brewing, he went on to the general goods store, where he bought more potions and all the lockpicks they had. It was all I could do to buy a stash of food when he wasn't looking, or else we'd have starved by now. Or at least I would have starved by now. I don't intend to share unless he asks nicely, and even then, maybe not; funnily enough, the Dragonborn doesn't seem close to fainting of hunger, even though it's been a week or so, so it seems like I don't have to.

We've been sticking closely to the river eastwards. I suppose it's as quiet as it gets; it's an endless march from dawn until dusk and then some, punctuated only by mushroom-picking and fights with wild animals and hostile army patrols. Some time ago, the Dragonborn found an Amulet of Talos, and has been wearing it ever since; this often attracts the ire of Imperial guards, who don't really improve their standing with that haughty tone of theirs. We're lucky to have met only guards of elven, foreign descent. They took over our land and freedom, and it's our right and duty to purge them from our home, but I can't say I feel the same for Nords. I mean, I'm not as radical as some of the others in blanket-labelling factions. A Nord is a Nord, no matter what race you are, Redguard or Orc or Breton; as long as the blood of Skyrim runs in your veins, and the earth of Skyrim cakes under your nails, you're a Nord to me, no matter what confounded policies Ulfric Stormcloak is running in Markarth. And Nords shouldn't turn on Nords when the real enemy are the Thalmor and the dragons. It's the Imperial emblem on the shields, but Nords, citizens, family of Whiterun that hold them high in the streets on watch, day and night. I honestly don't know what I'd do if I were to run across Nord Imperials, and I shudder at the thought of the Dragonborn slaying them without hesitation.

I asked him about this when we passed by Mixwater Mill:

"What do you think of killing soldiers, Imperial or Stormcloak? Do you have an allegiance to one or the other?"

"The Imperials were the ones about to execute me unlawfully, and it was an Imperial that saved me too," he replied. "I have no allegiance."

"But what about killing them?"

"I fight in self-defense."

"And Nords? Say, if it were a Nord in the suit of armour, not a Thalmor, and..."

"If they are hostile to me, I will be hostile to them," he said, and that was that.

I couldn't quite accept that answer. Did he really think nothing of his countrymen? Something inside me stirred, and I blurted: "So really, you're on your own side? Always looking out for number one?"

After what felt like hours in the void of night, he replied: "I... I suppose so."

It was the first time I heard him stammer. Nay, it was the first time I had heard a man stammer, let alone an Orc with the strength and regenerative power to take on three people. Stammering is a sign of indecisiveness, and he's shown none of that until now. I didn't know what to say or do. What if I had touched a nerve? You know what they say, that it's the close shave of another's blade that drives men to the way of the sword. I would have scorned him if not for that thought. After all, we've all got our murdered parents, loved ones, vengeances... what are you supposed to do when you mention something like that?

We spent the rest of the night in silence, with nothing but the light of the half-moon and its reflection in the river as our guide.

A few hours before sunrise, we heard a dragon roaring from behind. We quickly stopped and unsheathed our weapons, but the dragon was quicker, spewing a stream of fire that filled my closed eyes with a dull, throbbing red. At least it came form behind, so my armour took the brunt of the burning. I dashed into the river to cool down, and was about to charge back up when the dragon landed, with a heavy flop, and roared. There's no point in trying to describe what it was like, so I'll say it as simply as I can.

In the roar were three words that seemed to skip my ears and go straight into my head.

"You defy nature -"

The Dragonborn roared his "Fus" in return, cutting it off before it could say any more, before landing a powerful blow right between its eyes. To face the dragon face to face was a risky move usually rewarded by death, but the strike seemed to daze the dragon long enough for him to land several more blows to the same spot, each more vicious than the next. I hurried up to him. Just before the final blow was struck, I caught a glimpse of it, and it's kept me awake until now. That look of conflict, of struggle, trapped within those beady Orcish eyes, barely visible but as apparent as a pool of blood on snow, that gripped him as he ploughed his mace into the dragon's skull. That look which struck a chord in me, that I've seen somewhere before, but where?...

I... I realize, dear diary, that I want to help him. I'm his housecarl, his companion, the only one he has with him. But I can't do that without knowing just what the hell is going on.

So until he tells me, because he's definitely not going to just tell me if I ask him, all I can do is stick with him. To High Hrothgar, to fulfill his destiny, to the northern-most tip or to the deep recesses of the Dwemer ruins... I'll fight by his side and defend his life with my own. It's his responsibility to save the world. I feel that it's my responsibility to save him.

And, of course, when this business is all over, I'll make him pay back poor Arcadia for every single petal or stalk he's snitched from her shelves, not a septim more, not a septim less, because there aren't things you simply can't get away with just because you're the chosen one.


	8. Chapter 8

Dear Diary,

What's the deal with bards? They play their lone instrument and sing their songs and it sounds just so empty. I don't know. I'm not a music sort of person, but I've been finding our resident bards to be inadequate, leastways, as inadequate as you can expect as an accompaniment for drinking stale beer and cheap wine. And it's a strange thought because we haven't heard song or singing for the past few weeks. The idea just popped into my head, and I had to get it off my chest.

We're here at last. Remember what I said about not wanting to be with the Greybeards? I've changed my mind about them. They have a roof and a warm castle, and thus they earn my tolerance. Heck, I'd be polite to even the Thalmor if it meant being able to cuddle up to their fireplace and getting the Dremora-damned snow out of my ears.

The trip up to the castle was not fun. We strolled through the town of Ivarstead for a while, and by that, I mean breaking and entering into the homes of the poor villagers. After the Dragonborn listened in to some gossip and agreed to help a man carry food up to the Greybeards - actually, he agreed to help quite a lot of people, which, admittedly, is nice of him to do - we crossed the bridge and started the journey. They say that there's seven thousand steps, but I find that to be doubtful. After all, with the snow blanketing everything, it's just one big slope, and I don't think someone paying attention to counting rather than his footing would live to return and report his findings.

The trail up the mountain was swarming with beasts. Fighting them off was made all the more harder by their white colourings and the glare of the snow. We ran into two packs of wolves, two bears, and a family of ice wraiths that nearly froze my fingers off. The Dragonborn had no problem with the first two types; it was the elemental spirits that gave us the most trouble. They're swift and small and ice-coloured, and every missed swing is an opening to receive a faceful of frost. Have I mentioned that they're really hard to hit? Because they were. In the end, the Dragonborn got upset and pulled out a Flames spell, spraying everything before him in fire until he hit them all.

In fact, the frost troll was an easier opponent in a way, because you could at least see what you were hitting, and their attacks are easily sidestepped with enough caution. They're resilient, but our blades were sharper; we hacked, dodged, and hacked some more, slowly whittling at it like flies around a cow until it tired, leaving itself wide open for a jaw-smashing bash from the Dragonborn's mace. He could have used his fire magic again, seeing as trolls are weak to fire, but the way he looked suggested that he was too drained to do so any more. His swings were slightly off, though that could have been because of the deal with the ice wraiths. I don't know about magic at all, so it isn't my place to say, and the most important thing is that we survived.

The Dragonborn left the food at the depot site at the bottom of the last flight of stairs, and at long last we pushed through the doors of High Hrothgar. I'm not ashamed to say that I attached myself to the closest wall with a flame torch to try and coax life back into my fingertips. Anyways, the Dragonborn helped himself to a few heads of lavender and proceeded to talk to the Greybeards.

The only one who spoke was the one named Arngeir. He asked the Dragonborn to demonstrate his abilities, and demonstrate he sure did. Satisfied and, apparently, impressed with the performance, Arngeir had this other one - Borri - teach him another Word, "Ro". As if one weren't bad enough. The rest of the session involved him shouting at ghost-like things; nothing close to normal, but I can't say that I was surprised after everything I've been through. No, I was too busy praising the anonymous Aedra responsible for creating fire, and maybe cursing whichever Daedra invented blizzards.

Arngeir then took him out to the courtyard for further training. Go back out into the snow after bracing against it for 7000 steps? What are you, crazy? (Don't answer that.) No thank you. I stayed firmly put where I was. Even so, it would seem like the Dragonborn was enjoying himself, judging from th echoes of all the confounded shouting outside. When he returned, he had the faintest trail of a smile on his face. Later on I found out that he had learnt another type of shout called "Whirlwind Sprint", which did just as the name implied. Instantly I realized what this meant: more ear-splitting, mind-defying power for him to abuse, and more intense running to catch up for me. I was not pleased.

The Greybeards have now tasked him with looking for some artifact, Jurgen Windcaller's horn, from his tomb. Rude much? We don't know what it does or what they want with it, but apparently, they're something in it for the Dragonborn, because he accepted without batting an eyelid. They've at least allowed us to spend the night here. It's never occurred to me until now, but I hope they don't snore. It's bad enough when they talk; I don't want the roofs crashing down on us just because one of them can't breathe through their nose while sleeping.

The Dragonborn seems to be in a good mood. I guess you would be if you learnt some new power. Magic doesn't seem all that hard to pick up, since the Dragonborn's managed to learn several spells just by reading tomes. Maybe I should give it a go... then again, this is the Dragonborn we're talking about. Destined one and whatnot.

I wonder what I'd do if I were the Dragonborn. Just a "What if" thing, you know? A girl has every right to wonder about these things. I know that I'd be doing a lot more dragon-slaying, that's for sure, and maybe convince the Jarl to house my aunt in Breezehome. I don't know why they've left it empty for so long, and I'm not complaining that they've decided to sell it to the Dragonborn, but a house is a house. Maybe I'd go around using my powers to help people and do favours, too, like that poor Narfi character we met in Ivarstead. His sister went out to collect ingredients and never came back, and she's probably dead, but Narfi doesn't believe it. He lives in some broken shack without even a proper roof. I feel sorry for him. The Dragonborn's taken interest in the case. Good for him. Now if only he were not so socially incompetent... seriously, people are a lot more trusting than I realized. Though it could be because he's the Dragonborn, and if you can't trust the prophesied saviour of Skyrim, who else can you trust?

Dragonborn and destiny, huh. My, my. Look how mellow you are, thinking all these grand thoughts like you're someone special. I suppose I am, really, what with being a housecarl and the Dragonborn's chosen follower, but compared to others...

This is giving me a headache. I've heard enough for today; all these "Fus"es and "Ro"s are still crashing about in my brain, and I don't need myself aggravating it any more.


	9. Chapter 9

Dear Diary,

What do you think of investing in rabbit fur padding? I don't have the time to hunt rabbits myself, seeing as I'm tied to the Dragonborn's pursuits (and he always gets to the animals first), but the fur should be cheap enough to buy from a tanner. I think I'm going to try and cure it and use it as lining for the sides of my helmet, so that I can be relieved of those forsaken Shouts once and for all. Really, it's Shouts this, Shouts that. It's all that I think about now, and it frustrates me how far I've fallen. Sigh.

I mean, take this for example. I found myself thinking about the Shout called Unrelenting Force, or Fus for those of you who aren't really picky (the Dragonborn himself calls it Fus Ro Dah, as in, "I'm going to use my Fus Ro Dah now, stand back"). It's basically a strong force that bursts from his mouth. The question is, doesn't that force push against the insides of your mouth? How does it even work? If it's like blowing, then the wind definitely passes your teeth; Fus is like a really, really strong wind, so shouldn't it rip off his teeth every time he uses it?

I am a Nord woman and I have nothing to hide. I will therefore confess that I spent a good deal of the afternoon's trek puffing out my cheeks, trying to imagine just how it worked... and then the Dragonborn noticed.

He asked me what I was doing. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked him about the sensation of Shouting. He said that he had never noticed, and he should try it out, so without warning he turns and does precisely that at some hapless bush. When my bearings resettled, after he had so rudely shook them up, he told me that it felt tingly along his gums, like eating mint.

Honestly? Like eating mint? Who eats mint directly? How is that supposed to feel like? Ah, well, at least it's an answer, and that put my question to rest pretty quickly. I suppose it tastes just like grass. Yuck. And to think that the Greybeards spend their whole lives just for that, it's kinda astounding. Just goes to show that it takes every sort of person to make a world.

Dearest father, mother, pray forgive me, if ye still be watching me from the heavens. It's not that your poor daughter wants to disturb the grave of the dead, it's the will of his destined one and his new, unshaven mentors. Yes, destiny is a cheap excuse for intruding scared grounds, but still, it's for the sake of the world, even though I still don't know what we're taking the horn for or what it does. In fact, I suspect that not even the Greybeards now, else they would have told us, right? Ha!

We're heading to Morthal, then north-east to the tomb called Uestengrav. It's in the Hjaalmarch, a gloomy, dreary corner of Skyrim even more depressing than the endless white plains of High Hrothgar. I'm starting to pick out a pattern of terrible taste in these Voice users. Firs the top of an uninhabitable mountain, then this. Does it hurt to want to be buried somewhere with more sun? Or maybe the poor man Jurgen was laid to rest by these cheery fellows who made the decision for him. Marshland inaccessible to loved ones, followers and essentially anyone who wanted to visit? Perfect, we'll take it.

Actually, maybe this Jurgen guy simply wasn't very popular, and the Greybeards didn't want to take chances. Given the amount of Draugr that roam the catacombs, actually sounds almost reasonable. You must have heard of the legends of unsavoury people coming back with unfinished business. Like the man who was owed sixty thousands septims for selling his family into slavery, swindled out of his dirty fortune, then came back to seek vengeance on his former partners; or the woman, murdered because her husband wanted to cheat with another, who found the sinful couple in Solitude and castrated the pair before beheading them; and the occasional mother-in-law.

Still, even if he wasn't well-liked, that doesn't give us the right to break into his tomb. Or anyone's tomb, for that matter.

I wonder what the horn does, or what it's for. Most of the scared horns in Whiterun are purely ceremonial, and most of the regular horns are for musical purposes only. Of course you have people who use them to hide money in. Good call, seeing how the Dragonborn has taken to digging into cabinets and drawers as well for loose change. Few if not non-existent are the horns with magical powers, famed enough for them to have a legend. I certainly haven't heard of anything like it.

Why horns, though? I prefer the sound of the sitar myself, and the lute's not bad. The horn is just... such a simple instrument. Blow in, sound out, one note. Bo-ring. Maybe he had more but the horn was his favourite, I dunno. It'd be pretty hilarious actually if we had to go on and collect more instruments, scattered all across Skyrim. The Orchesral Set of Jurgen Windcaller, and the Dragonborn as the lead vocalist. Ha. That'd be a laugh.

...no, come to think of it, no, it wouldn't. Please no.

We've been talking more and more lately. On the road it's still really quiet, but at nights, when we stop to camp (if at all) we have little conversations about nothing in particular after the fire. Guess you really have to talk to someone to get to know them. He's not very talkative, but he's nice enough. You wouldn't expect him to be a black-hearted thief. I've noticed that his voice is a lot less rough than I'd imagine an orc's to be, probably due to the Voice.

Once, I asked him where he had learnt to fight so well. He replied that he was still learning - a surprisingly mellow, humble answer. I asked him why he used maces, seeing as they're the bluntest of the one-handed weapons. He said that that was it, because they were blunt.

"I don't really like the idea of hacking people up," he added.

"Funny you should think that, since mace blows are the most painful. You know, since they kill by breaking bones, rather than a quick slash to the neck. But you already know that, I guess."

The silence that followed and the look on his face suggested that he did not. I quickly changed the subject.

"Do you have a family?"

"Family?" He stared into the fire, beady eyes glinting orange. "I did."

"Ah. Mine died of the plague," I said, nodding. Being orphaned was not uncommon, what with the war going on, but it gave you a kinship of sorts with people. You could reckon with them. You had to be one to know. I offered him some wine, but he didn't take it. I assumed that it was a sign for me to go on. "There was an infection going around when I was ten. It was the sort that turned your lips black and your skin pale, something in the meat, I think. We had survived two waves of sickness before that; I guess their luck just ran out. But I'm all over it, now."

I could not help but look at the stars above. Aunt Angeltrack, before the case of nerves got to her, had told me that they were up there, as stars, ever lingering at the rim of the sky. I know it's not adult-like, but it's not a bad thing to believe in, you know?

"I knew them for ten years, and they were kind to me. That's more than others can say for themselves. No offence meant if that somehow applied to you," I aded.

"It's okay. It didn't," replied the Dragonborn. He continued to stare into the fire, locked in some brilliant vision from the embers. It was, admittedly, a cold night, though I had never seen him so deep into it before.

"I guess you don't want to talk about them," I said at last. "Sorry for bringing it up."

"No, it's not that. It's..." He sighed and stamped his foot. "It's... no. I..."

I felt genuinely sorry for him then. It was probably the mood at the time, the wine, or how strange he looked, but I really did feel sorry for him. I did what anyone would have done.

I reached for his shoulder and offered the bottle again. "You don't have to tell me. It's okay."

"If only I could," he replied, accepting it at last. "And when I can, I promise you, I will."


	10. Chapter 10

Dear Diary,

For some reason - I don't even want to know - the tomb was full of people when we got there. Mostly alive, but we took care of that.

As we stepped inside, we heard the noise of a fight: a group of shady mages were battling some bandits. The logical thing would be to wait it out and finish the stragglers, but, well, Dragonborn. Says it all, really. And for once I was inclined to agree. No good can come out of a bunch of people who decide that a resting place is a good place for a fight, especially if one side's necromancers and the other robbers. Before we charged in, the Dragonborn shared with me a new type of drought he had made, something to boost resistance to magic. Growing up as a Nord, ice magic was nothing more than an early taste of winter for me, but extra defence never hurt anyone, and those fire spells looked like they hurt. The droughts don't taste of much, but they seem to imbue your skin with a tingling warmth, and I emerged from the battle a good deal less grilled than I normally am. I've heard of ointment to cure burns after they happen, so I suppose it makes sense for there to be a potion that stops burns. Huh.

In addition to a bunch of bloodied robes, my backpack is now full of magic books and staves. He'll most probably sell the lot to Farengar, though I've noticed him keeping a couple of the stronger ones in his own inventory. Summon-something or other. It's etched down the sides in big letters, which is very helpful. Apparently, the staffs don't need any sort of knowledge or magical aptitude to use. You just point and something happens, I guess, like swords that you don't even have to swing.

I'm surprised at the ease at which we navigated the ruins. Jurgen had plenty of space to himself; the tomb went on for a considerable depth and distance. Even so, the Dragonborn walked on with cool confidence. There were Draugr about, but they proved no match for us, breaking into heaps with a single blow. Rather, it was as if he had been expecting them, with that unassuming way of his as he walked up to the sleeping skeletons in the wals, making sure they stayed down. Might he have been a grave robber in the past life? Maybe, maybe not. I'm not willing to entertain the thought just yet.

"Let's just say I have a guide," he told me, as if he had read my mind.

It's probably some hidden map or magic of the Voice. It has to be. He's obviously never been here before, having only just heard of it from the Greybeards. It's the only explanation why he could have known about the room above our heads as we walked in. He did some jumping and climbed up a few broken pillars, Hurr'd (the fast moving Shout) his way across on to a ledge, and when he came back, he was several hundred septims richer, with a sparkling rock that I recalled to be a soul gem.

Anyhow, we went on. There was a gate unlocked only by pressure plates, which I couldn't activate no matter how hard I stomped, and then a room with flame traps and pressure plates and spiders. Honestly, Jurgen, if you wanted company, make friends with your own kind in the Netherworld. Don't drag us down just because you're looking for a chat.

All right, so I'm not the nimblest maiden around, and those scorch marks on the Dragonborn's back may have been my fault, but I stand by the defence that it's Jurgen's fault for installing the traps, not mine. Got it?

Anyhow, after the harrowing journey, we reach the pedestal only to find a note, saying that someone's stolen the horn before we could.

What.

Yeah, so the Dragonborn took it much more calmer than I did. Because I was boiling mad. Who wouldn't be? I risked my neck (and the Dragonborn's) with those freaking fire traps for nothing! Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the mages were put there by the same person who took the horn, just to mess with us!

"This is getting us nowhere," muttered the Dragonborn in a completely neutral voice, which is the closest to him being angry that I've ever seen him - not at all. "Okay, hold on, we're getting out of here. Close your eyes and count to fifty."

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, as any sane person would.

"Go on, do it. And stay here," commanded the Dragonborn, trotting out.

It's funny, now that I come to think of it. In those fifty seconds of darkness, I never once thought that the Dragonborn would leave me behind. Then again, I was pretty distracted by the smell of musty tomb and my rage. At the end of the fifty counts, when I opened my eyes, my head swirled, like that one time when I ran around in circles fifty times for a dare as a child. I realized that I was kneeling in grass, and my face was warm from the sun shining down on me. Some ways away was the trickle of a river, and a cool breeze was kicking dust down my neck.

Somehow, the Dragonborn had got me out of Uestengrav and at the foot of Riverwood.

Trust me, I don't really sound like it here, but I was stunned beyond measure. In fact, I still sortta am. Accepting that it even happened at all is an uphill battle with my logic, but I think I'm winning. Go me.

"The note said that person holding the horn is in here," said the Dragonborn. "If you're ready, we can go."

"Wait. How did you..."

Without answering, he lumbered off, but not before visiting the general goods store and cutting down on the mountain of loot I was carrying.

I told him I wasn't feeling too good, so he went and got a room for me at the inn. He said that the person, Delphine, also planned to meet him there so it's all good. Mmm, yes, when I've gotten over the implausibility of what just happened, I'm going to go over and give her what she's got coming for wasting my time.


	11. Chapter 11

Dear Diary,

I'm not sure if I want to write this, because it's wrong and unsettling and even though I don't want to think about it or pass judgement on it, I can't help but do so. I can't help but wonder why.

You see, today, I witnessed the Dragonborn murdering someone.

Now before you starting patting me on the head with a smile, saying that I'm just stressed, nervous from all the Shouting, or that I should take a holiday somewhere sunny, let me tell you that this was different from the usual fights we do. Yes, we've killed bandits and Thalmor and rogues and mages before, but that was different. It's the feeling. I mean, attacking people is definitely not something to be taken as lightly as killing beasts. I know that. It's just that everyone we've ever attacked either had it coming or attacked us first. The Thalmor are a plague, as are the necromancers and bandits. The occasional Forsworn that we run into are always the first to draw their weapons. But today...

When I came to, I was told that the Dragonborn had left me a message to meet him in Whiterun. He had gone off to return the horn to the Greybeards by himself. Just as well; I didn't really want to see this Delphine woman nor the Greybeards again, much less trek back up the mountain. I was still feeling slightly dizzy, like a piece of my stomach was missing. So I made my way back to Whiterun on my own. The journey took about three days and was rather uneventful.

When I met up with him, he seemed to be in high spirits. He told me that he now had the full Unrelenting Force - Fus, Ro and Dah. The way he beamed reminded me of a kid wanting to be praised.

"Why don't you show me," I said, and so we went a little ways outside and shouted on the wall.

"Fuuuus - rodah", with a bit of dragging and delay. That's what the full Unrelenting Force sounds like, and it was amazingly powerful. And here I was, thinking that Fus was magical. Now that I've seen the whole thing, Fus is like the whiny eight-year-old brother of the tough captain-of-the-guard Fus Ro Dah. The iron dagger to an ebony greatsword. The barrel lid to a tempered, enchanted shield. You get the picture.

Anyhow, we got on the cart and went, this time, to Windhelm. I began to sense the Dragonborn's enthusiasm fading, but never thought much of it.

"So, any particular reason why we're going to Windhelm?" I asked.

"I have an appointment," he replied.

His appointment turned out to be another breaking-and-entering mission, but I wish that were all it was to it. When we stepped into the house, we were met with the stench of deathbell and tallow. The house was musty, as if it were abandoned, and it was poorly lit. The Dragonborn and I crouched low. We made our way carefully up the stairs, and the sound of a voice become increasingly evident. It was the voice of a child, but the words, and the way he said it...

"Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy," something or other about death and purging.

Why the hell was a child saying such things? The words betrayed his actions to be occult. Was it a recital for some dark magic? Or a prayer to the daedra? I never paid much attention to the myths of evil rites, but standing there, if there ever was such a thing, this would be it.

What turned my blood cold, though, was the way he stopped to moan: "Why won't you answer me? O Night Mother, why won't you answer me?" As if this Night Mother or whatever was something good! He was a child! Why was he participating in the occult, praying to some demon?

We sneaked up and saw a better glimpse of him. Oh, the image - how I wish I could forget all of it. It was sickening. In the room on the second floor was a child, kneeling beside a skeleton. There were a few deathbells scattered around, along with candles, thin and almost burnt out. There was a pentagram of sorts, chalked on the floorboards. There was a piece of flesh and a heart, stinking of precisely that. And he was there, mumbling that twisted prayer as he stabbed the skeleton.

What did the Dragonborn have to do with him?

His actions have always been inappropriate, but there's a boundary between grudgingly funny and infuriatingly insolent.

What he did was strip and began creeping around.

I'll let that sink in for one moment.

He stripped, wearing nothing but his loincloth (and thank Talos for that). Then he crept up to the child and crept back out. And again. And again, and again.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed, barely restraining myself from kicking him in the groin.

"Sneaking."

Sneaking? As if that made any sense!

I was boiling mad. He had gone at it for around thirty rounds when I failed to restrain myself, and kick him in the groin I did. He grunted and crashed, chin first, on the floor.

"Huh? Who's there?" The kid spun around to look at the intruders, a suited Nord woman and an orc as naked as a peeled banana. He stumbled back and was about to say something, but then the weirdest thing happened (as if it wasn't weird enough): his eyes clouded over, literally, and he blinked a few times before getting up to his feet.

"It's... you! It has to be you! The Night Mother's answered me at last!" he exclaimed, running up to us.

As the Dragonborn got dressed, giving me a rueful look, the child explained who he was. His name was Aventus, and he was an orphan on the run from Riften. The headmistress of his orphanage was extremely cruel and made life difficult for the kids, beating them and verbally abusing them. He, Aventus, had ran away in order to summon the Dark Brotherhood to get rid of her - and he thought that we were them.

Just when I was about to tell him that he was sorely mistaken, the Dragonborn stepped forward and agreed to do it.

"Do what now?" I asked.

"Kill Grelod the Kind," the Dragonborn replied.

That night, we travelled to Riften. No matter how much I tried to coax him or persuade him out of it, he wouldn't even look at me. Were we seriously going to go and kill this woman? I mean, sure, she sounded evil, but you know how kids are! Beatings produce character, damned if I was never beaten - we all were, and we grew to appreciate the discipline. It could just be a fit of childish spite, or a temper, or a joke played too far, and anyways why were we taking the most drastic measure? Surely the orphanage answered to someone in charge. Riften is a Stormcloak city, and they seem like the sort who would step in if needed. Why couldn't we lodge a complaint and an investigation to them instead? If she was found guilty, then sure, lock her away and throw away the key, but people are innocent until proven otherwise. You can't just get rid of someone because they're not nice to you. That's not how justice works.

The Dragonborn didn't have an answer to anything I said. Not even an objection. He was being obstinate, and, strangely, that felt almost as bad as the idea that we were going to a certain place for the sole purpose of taking another's life.

We broke into Honourhall Orphanage. I didn't care how loud my footsteps were. If we got discovered, serve him right. The children didn't say much to us, just looked at us with a strange mix of fear and, I daresay, hope. Did they know about Aventus and the Dark Brotherhood? They were scrawny, thin kids, many of them bruised along the neck and arms. Maybe the kid had been telling the truth after all...

The Dragonborn went on to check the wardrobes. He opened the first one and pointed to it, apparently still not talking to me. Fine. I didn't give him the benefit of seeing me surprised when I saw the shackles, heavy and rusted, lying at the bottom. These were definitely not toy shackles. They had no place in an orphanage of all places. Something was wrong all right.

But even if this Grelod was evil, shouldn't that mean all the more that we should take her to court?

Aren't we being no better by abusing the power we have?

The Dragonborn had switched his maces for a dagger. It was a beautifully crafted elven dagger that he had taken off a dead Thalmor, and it looked like it had never been used, with an edge that glimmered and a body that gave a throbbing twang if you knocked it lightly against a rock. He took out a potion of invisibility and drank. I watched as the magic took place until there was nothing but a blur around the edges of his body.

"Drink," he said.

"I refuse," I replied. "This is wrong and you know it."

"Then wait outside."

So I did. I stood outside the door, fuming and glaring at anyone who passed by.

About ten minutes later, I saw the woman herself. She was a tough old bird, with pulled cheeks and wrinkles all over her face, and her lips were curled into a sneer.

"What're you looking at? Get out of here," she hissed, slamming the door behind her, not knowing that those words would be her last.

Another fifteen minutes later, there was the sound of excited babbling. The door opened and a tiny girl, no more than seven years old, said: "The good man asked you to come in. It's over now!"

"The good man"? I snorted, spat, and followed her back inside.

Inside was Grelod, throat slit cleanly, slowly bleeding all over her pillow. The children were celebrating and dancing at the foot of her bed, praising the Dark Brotherhood and Aventus. Standing in the middle, dagger tucked away, upright and visible, was the Dragonborn.

I felt sick to my stomach. The scene, the sight of it, what I was hearing... all of it just made me sick.

"The book I found on her is interesting," said the Dragonborn later on as we bunked down for the night.

"Get out of my room," I snarled.

"Read it. See, it says, 'By all rights, the civilized races of Tamriel should have been able to purge the land of their blight eras ago'... it's talking about orcs. She was reading books like these. 'The Pig Children', it's called."

"You're a murderer. You sicken me."

He lowered his voice. "I did what I had to do."

"Oh? And you really believe that, don't you?" I asked, looking him squarely in the eye. I walked up to him and spat in his face. "Going around, killing defenseless women in their sleep? Sure, she was despicable. Yes, the kids looked happy, damned if that's normal. But she never did you any harm. You literally slit her throat in the dead of night, behind her back! It was so cowardly! Now what are the kids going to do? She may have been cruel, but at least she kept them fed and clothed! They'll starve without an adult! And how did you know about Aventus anyways? The Dark Brotherhood, passing off as them... don't you feel that it's just so wrong? The whole thing? Summoning assassins with the offals, the deathbells, and that dark prayer of theirs?"

"There's Constance, the other woman," the Dragonborn tried to say, but I wasn't hearing any of it.

"Get out. The sight of you disgusts me."

"If only you would listen..."

"Go on then. I'm listening." I crossed my arms. "You have ten seconds to tell me what your amazing grand plan is this time."

"I... can't."

He can't?

He can't?

What sort of answer is that? He's not going to even try and justify himself?

"Listen to me," pleaded the Dragonborn. "I can't tell you what's going on yet, but when I can I will! Didn't I say so?"

"What if that's not good enough? Everything you've been doing... there's a limit to these things, you know. There's only so much I can take. Passing off as some daedric killer for hire? Revelling in the misguided cheers of those poor children? It's like you want to be part of this Dark Brotherhood," I said.

"I do," he replied.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

"This Dark Brotherhood. Tell me, what do they do?" I asked as evenly as possible.

"They receive requests for murders. When the deed is done, there is a reward. Most of the time, it's money," he replied, matching my gaze with those empty eyes of his.

"And you want to join them."

"Yes." It looked like it pained him to say it. "But there's more to it than that. I want to... I want to..."

"You want to what, huh?"

"I can't say. I'm sorry. I really can't say. I want to, please understand this, I want to, so much, but..."

"I can't travel like this," I told him. "I can't do this killing thing or this Dark Brotherhood nonsense with you. It's just wrong, wrong, wrong. Somewhere deep inside me is something telling me that this group is no good at all. They shouldn't even exist. They're sick. The entire idea is sick. The skeletons, the Night Mother, all of it. And you want to be part of them? Going around, killing people for money? You can't expect me to do that. I won't be able to live with myself."

"I know. I don't." The Dragonborn sighed and straightened himself up. What little emotion was left in his face had disappeared, leaving a coldness that gripped at my heart.

"From today onwards, you no longer have to follow me. I'm dismissing you as my companion."


	12. Chapter 12

Dear Diary,

I'm back home.

It's okay. It's better this way. There's no way in hell that you could ever bring yourself to do that sort of thing. You can't betray yourself no matter what. You can't betray your justice. You can't betray everything you've ever believed in. Even if it means being tossed aside by the person you've spent, what, almost a year with. Never mind the fact that you've done so much for him, or how disappointing it is to find out that he's that sort of person. I mean, it was obvious, wasn't it? All the thievery, the smithing, the looting, it was all just for money. He doesn't plan to save the world. He's just out there for number one. Just like he told you before.

You're a housecarl. You serve Whiterun, its Jarl, and its citizens. That's what you're supposed to do. You defend the weak and uphold the honour of your people, come what may, dragon or beast or raiding party. You can't help it if you expected him to save the world or anything, right? You can't help it if he doesn't want to talk about it. Whoops, sorry, "can't". Pfft. Yeah, right. And it's not like you want to be with that sort of person anyways. No, Lydia, it's for the best.

I'm just so disappointed.

Am I stupid for expecting something from him? Actions of a weasel, but with a heart of gold? How naive. Actions show personality. It's that simple. He's done nothing to show himself to be good. And we, all of us, are bloody murderers who go about killing each other until the day is spent. We're all rotten to the core. At least some of us try to fix it, hide it, be better people than we are. Others just use you and then toss you away when they point out what's you're doing is wrong.

And to think that for one moment I almost thought that I was his friend.

I'm so alone. I've always noticed it, since I really do live alone, but it's never bugged me. For the first time in a long time, I'm feeling it... just how alone I truly am.


	13. Interlude 1

I met the Dragonborn twice after we parted ways.

When I returned home, I kept the stories of our travels a secret. There was no point in dwelling on the days of the past when it had all been just a delusion, and I wanted to put it all behind me. At the same time, I couldn't wear my heart out on a sleeve to my colleagues. I couldn't tell anyone; the men wouldn't understand, and the women would gossip and make it worse. We're warriors, after all, with hearts and wills of cold steel. Opening up and bawling my emotions out like some sop-eyed milkmaid would only destroy the little that remained of my reputation; I refused to answer the nagging questions about what had happened, and over time, they let me alone.

My friends told me that I had become different. Rightly so. I had become more quiet, more reclusive, but I can't say that my days were badly spent. The Jarl had gifted me with a raise in the wake of my service to the chosen one, as undeserved as the title was, and so I had amounted a tidy sum of money in my absence. It was a pleasant surprise. I began to develop interests and hobbies, lurking in the kitchens and picking up recipes to improve my cooking, or dabbling in unarmed combat from time to time with Aela of the Companions, with whom I hunted every so often. I even had a brief fling with the sitar, though the slender strings proved to be no match for my battle-hardened fingers.

The first time I met the Dragonborn was six weeks after my dismissal, in Riverwood.

Around a month and a half after my return, scouts reported sightings of a dragon looming south of the river. The Jarl sent me, Raven-wing and Gehari to keep watch in Riverwood; more precisely, to put the hearts of the villagers at ease. We set off, arrived, and made ourselves familiar with the town. Alvor remembered me faintly, as did the owner of the general goods store; they were surprisingly understanding when I told them I was no longer with the Dragonborn, and kept quiet about it to my immense gratitude. As we were there as a reassurance and not a force, we were free, rather, encouraged to mingle with the locals. It gave Whiterun's authority a friendly face. Alvor's - not Aldur, as I thought it was - daughter took a liking to me, and when we were not training, I played with her, usually harmless games of tag around the village or scaring chickens and watching them flapping away with squawks. Those were blissful days, and I savour them now more than ever.

It was the second week of our dispatchment to Riverwood when the Dragonborn showed up, laden heavily with loot. He was still wearing the same armour as before, although he had a new set of maces, orcish by the black gleam of the metal in the midday sun.

I managed to avoid him seeing me as he conducted his dirty business around town. To be precise, I told my friends that I was going into the woods for a walk, and hid in a bush, planning to wait until he had left before reappearing. Duty called, though, and I found my plans sorely crushed.

There was an ear-splitting roar. There were screams and the sound of a pot shattering, dropped to the ground. There was the sound of rushing wind and a snarl.

A dragon was attacking the village.

I shoved my way through the throng of panicking villagers, quickly taking in the situation. At the gates, the dragon circled the air. It was a cunning one. It dived at us, breathing ice breath, before perching itself on a roof. When it had rested its wings for no more than twenty seconds, it took to the skies again, where none of us could attack it properly. We only had a short window of opportunity to attack it, and even then, our swords were useless - we had to rely on our arrows, which made paltry scratches against the thick hide of the dragon. None of us could fire an arrow upwards and reach that height, let alone give it enough force to penetrate its hide.

In the chaos, the Imperial guards had stepped in, too. Everyone with a bow was firing madly, including the Dragonborn.

"Stand back!" he roared, facing the airborne dragon. "_Fus Ro Dah_!"

The Shout ripped through the air and slammed into the dragon with a force so powerful that it was audible. It thudded against its torso and the dragon lost balance, dropping to the ground with a crash. We charged up to it as soon as we saw it fall, and starting hacking at it like mad. The dragon tried to chase us off with a wall of frost, but we were prepared for its tricks. We had been equipped with enchanted shields for the very purpose of closing the distance between us and it. Dodging its wing beatings and its snapping jaws were a lot harder, though, and a moment's carelessness caused Raven-wing to collapse as a fang tore open her arm.

"Raven-wing!" I screamed, rushing to her side. Gehari noticed and ran over to give me cover as I dragged her away with one hand, fumbling for a potion with the other. The stopper refused to open; I had no choice but to break the vial with my grip. The life-giving water, mixed with fresh blood, dripped on to her gash and my own. I brushed the glass away quickly. It was odd how fast my hand had healed, but I was certainly not complaining. If I could still draw my arrow, then I was fine with it happening. I turned back to the dragon, which had taken to the skies again. It was well and truly enraged now, and rained ice from its unparalleled advantage above. The blows were not as forceful, but the persistent, unavoidable cold bit against our skin and armour. Our swords started to chip. Our eyes started to sting. With a growing dread, I realized that the dragon was actually using tactics - it was going to prolong the fight and outlast us. It could keep up the offence. We could not.

The Dragonborn let loose a battle cry. He whipped out one stave after another, casting spells that lit up the very earth, summoning floating Atronachs and coursing arcs of lightning. The one-man army was sending wave after wave of magic up at the dragon, but it was not good enough; he had never been good with the arcane arts, and his summons were weak slaves that vanished with a new wave of dragon breath.

The dragon swooped down and landed, nearly breaking the roof. It poured vengeful blizzard to the village below before making its clumsy way down to the ground, squatting in the centre of the road. That was when it spoke, and I heard its words like that of the dragon so very long ago:

"_Dragonborn. You defy nature!_"

The Dragonborn was the first to rush forward, only to stumble as his brashness was rewarded with a direct blast of ice to the face.

"_You defy destiny, and you shall pay._"

"Then make me!" yelled the Dragonborn, draining flask after flask of potion and standing stronger with each. He Shouted at the dragon with an intensity I had never heard before. It was much more raw, more desperate, more primal than I have ever heard of before, and definitely more powerful. It was so strong that it picked up the dragon and tossed it on its back. The Dragonborn seized the chance and leapt after it madly, hammering his maces on any exposed part in sight. He was screaming as he literally tore the dragon into pieces, breaking joints and shattering bones with each swing. As the dragon breathed its last and began to crackle into ash, he was still at it, crushing its ribcage, until the dust finally settled and he collapsed, panting heavily.

We watched silently as the Dragonborn straightened himself up. He made his way back to solid ground with a stiffness in his legs, like he had just aged thirty years; he kneeled down and loosened a couple of bones and packed them away before casting his emotionless face at us.

"Is this the power of the Dragonborn?" "He absorbed its soul!" "I've never seen anything like it!" murmured the crowd. I tried my best to stay hidden.

The Dragonborn walked over to us slowly. No running nor jumping, just walking. He made his way over to Alvor's smithery and bent down.

My mind turned numb when I saw that Alvor was dead.

He laid there, pushed by some strong force into a corner. He was crumpled up, as if his spine had been broken, and that was most likely the case. He had died with a greatsword in his hands, one of his own crafting. His eyes were closed and his lips were twisted not in pain, but in surprise. He was covered in glittering crystal, and there was no pool of blood gathering around his body. He had, most likely, been killed by the dragon.

"Lydia, what's going on?" blurbed the little girl as she waddled up to me. I looked up and saw her mother, standing stock still, frozen. A quick glimpse at the child's hand showed me thick lines of red upon pale skin; her mother had been holding her hand in a vice grip, and had probably only let go at the shock of her husband's demise.

"Lydia, what's wrong?"

I never did give her an answer, now that I come to think of it. All I did was hold her tightly, the tightest I've ever held anyone since the day my parents died, and sobbed into her hair. We sat there in the dust, long after the crowd had dispersed and the Dragonborn left - but, according to Gehari, not before stopping to look at me with that vacant expression of his, and Gehari claims to have heard him whisper: "It's my fault."


	14. Interlude 2

The second time I met the Dragonborn was three weeks after the devastation of Riverwood, in Ivarstead.

We returned to Whiterun immediately after the attack to report the incident. The Jarl was benevolent as always; he agreed to send aid and materials for the repair of the damaged structures immediately. Even though I missed Dorthe, I knew that her place was with her mother. They needed each other more than they needed me - or I needed them, for that matter.

Brooding on it put me into even more of a slump than usual. Sparring and training had become bland, tasteless. Afternoons would go by as Gehari, Raven-wing and I sat in the tavern, nibbling on cheese wheels and drinking in the noise and smells of blissful drunkenness to occupy our minds. We never got drunk ourselves, rarely touching the bottle out of a strange sense of self-control, wisdom, or perhaps stubborn contrariness. We knew that the road paved with alcohol had no return, but simply knowing was never good enough a reason to keep one away from it. Maybe it was because of the companionship. How we pressured each other to cope and to stay strong for the sake of the other two.

The only good thing that all this thinking brought was a realization that I should visit my remaining relatives before it was too late - namely, my sister and aunt.

I took a week's leave from the captain and set off on the coach. The driver and I talked little. As much as I hated to admit it, the coach felt much more roomier than it actually was, and I fought hard to not end up lying down in a curl like I always did during our travels. I found myself looking forward to living under a roof with more than my shadow for company.

I greeted my poor sister with more warmth than she expected, judging by the surprise on her face as I embraced her. It had been two years since we last saw each other, even though we exchanged letters very occasionally. Even though it was evident that I was more glad to see her than she me, I was happy. It took a load off my chest. Aunt Angeltrack, although frail in her age, was pleased to see me too, and welcomed me in with a pat on the head.

"Look how my dearest Lydia has grown," she murmured.

"She's not much different from the last time you saw her," my sister quipped.

Ah, if only she knew.

My sister, at least, I could trust, although I never did end up talking about my adventures. After the usual banter about life's many problems, such as the price of wheat rising and the increasingly cold weather, we somehow got into reminiscing about our youth.

"I never expected you to be a warrior, you know," Lilia grinned. "In fact, I'm still sort of skeptical about how serious you are now. You used to love knitting, so I thought... What drove you to pick up arms?"

"Do you remember that time when Joax stole a loaf of bread and pinned it on Muiri?"

"Of course. You were the one who told the matron that Joax was the culprit, not her."

"Well," I replied, "I realized that that was what I wanted to do. Deliver justice."

"How very simplistic of you. That's so very you, although I don't think a guard's position is the best way to go about that," she said. "Why not a judge or an official? They're the ones with power."

I shrugged. "I don't know. All I knew was that I wanted to uphold the law, and the closest of the law we saw as kids were the guards that stood watch."

"You did start playing with sticks a lot more after the incident," mused Lilia. "Huh. I never saw it coming."

"Truth be told, neither did I. I wonder what happened to Muiri. I lost touch of her when she left Whiterun. I can't even remember what she looks like, only that she was quiet and rather thin."

"And look at you now," whistled Lilia, raising her cup in a mock toast. "Housecarl of Whiterun, follower of the legendary Dragonborn! I caught a glimpse of you two when you were rushing up to the Throat of the World. I didn't want to believe it was you for a moment." She shook her head and smiled. "And here your sister is, a humble farmer at the foot of a mountain with an unending winter. I wonder what father and mother would have to say about that."

"They'd thank you for taking care of Aunt Angeltrack," I said emphatically.

"I'm just doing what I have to do," she snorted. "I mean, the poor woman raised me for a good ten years after the orphanage closed down. It's the least I could do."

"I still can't believe that it happened. Who would do such a thing, you know?" I refilled my cup. The tea was thin but scalding hot, and I blew gently on the surface.

"The Gray-Manes ran out of money, and the Battle-Borns, for all their proclaimed comradeship, were too stingy to help out." Lilia finished her drink with gusto. "No surprise that the Battle-Borns turned on the Gray-Manes as soon as they caught a whiff of an opposing allegiance, the lousy bastards. It just happens, this sort of thing. There's nothing much we can do about it. Well, couldn't. We can now, but it's a little too late. Such is life, eh?"

Quiet settled as we stopped to reflect on our tea.

"You know, Lydia, something's off about you," replied Lilia. "Let me guess: someone died on your watch?"

"Kinda, yes," I said, surprised. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess. It's morbid, but I've been looking in the mirror a lot lately, wondering what sort of look I'll get when Aunt Angeltrack finally moves on. You know, what face to wear when a loved one dies... You seem to have that look on you. There's a lot less fire in your spirit, and you look really tired," said Lilia, smiling wryly. "You're not exactly hard to read. If you were fine, you'd have gotten out the good ale by now. Heck, if you were fine, you wouldn't have indulged in all that nostalgia. You'd be talking about the last ruffian you beat to a pulp. Still, I'm not complaining." She looked away and exhaled. "It's really good to see you again after all this time."

"It's really good to see you too," I mumbled, not daring to look up. My ears were beginning to burn. I hoped that she wouldn't catch on to it.

"I know you're the older sister and all, but, well, if you ever wanna talk, or just have a cup of tea, I'm... you know. Here."

"I know." I risked a glance at her. Her lips were turned in an awkward curve, like a smile trying to straighten itself out. With a warmth rising in my heart, I added, "Thank you. For everything."

That night, I couldn't sleep. I decided to take a walk through town to ease my thoughts. The night air was, against all odds, warm, a wonderful change from the chilly afternoon. There was a breeze kicking about, and I found myself breathing more slowly, more relaxed. Aside from the long journey, I had done nothing but sit around and chat. Usually, that sort of unwholesome schedule would make my muscles wither out of spite more than lack of use, yet I felt the exact opposite. I was still young. I had a solid future ahead of me, and a people that needed me. I had my place in life. I had friends to share my troubles, and family that cared. I felt free, and, daresay, happy.

It was a beautiful night, and would have been the most beautiful of my life if it had not started raining.

I had just taken a bath; I didn't want to get drenched again after all the bother I went through to dry my hair! I cursed and looked for a shelter. There was a dirty shack a few lengths away. It would have to do. I rushed to it, entry first, apologies later.

"I'm sorry to barge in, but could I-"

In the light of the full moon and the cracks of the walls, I could make out the face of the body lying in perfect slumber to be Narfi's. We ran into him briefly; he was the poor chap that had lost his sister.

Even without the light of the full moon, I could make out the shape of the figure squatting next to the body. It was the Dragonborn.

"It's you," I said, unable to stop myself. I found myself reaching for my sword, but I hadn't brought one with me. There was no shield on my back nor dagger on my waist. I was completely unarmed and alone. "What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," replied the Dragonborn, voice as gravelly as always.

I rolled my eyes. "You look ridiculous. Lemme guess, someone hired you to kill Narfi? This poor lad who's done no one any harm, who's had all the misfortune in the world, and there's a contract or whatever out for his head?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Why am I not surprised?" I said, even though I was. Who would have wanted such a thing? I felt something twist inside my heart, and couldn't help but sneer. The room suddenly got a lot colder. It must have been the rain. "So you're still doing it, huh? This Dark Brotherhood business. How much are they paying you? Two hundred septims? Three hundred? Or maybe a nice vase, or a lifetime's supply of cheese? Is that all Narfi's life is worth? Maybe less, hmm?"

The Dragonborn didn't reply. I saw no reason to stop.

"Well, I hope you're enjoying life. Must've stacked up a room full of gold by now with the profit you're making. I wonder how much my life is, if someone were hired to come and kill me in my sleep."

"Don't say that," said the Dragonborn.

"What's it to you, huh? I'm just another person. Another target," I snapped.

"You aren't."

"Then what am I to you?!"

Even I was taken aback at how loud I shouted. He raised his head and stared at me in surprise.

Silence settled in like a well-fed cat next to a fireplace. All around us, the rain pattered, a veil of sound, never-ending, flowing like the finest silk. I became aware of how much my shoes squelched in the mud with every tiny shift, and the drops grazing my shoulders as they seeped through the poor excuse of a roof. Narfi slept on soundlessly.

"Don't answer that. I don't want to know." I turned my back to them. "Go on, do it. I'm sure you're an expert with silent kills by now. Just... make it painless. For his sake. It's the only kindness he'll ever get."

"I took him out to dinner," said the Dragonborn.

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"I took him out to lunch as well," he continued. "I met up with him and treated him to the finest food the tavern had to offer. We drank and played and ate and drank some more. I showered him with every luxury his heart desired today. Whatever he wanted, I bought. I'm just lucky he wasn't in the mood for women, because that would have been extremely awkward."

I remained silent.

"In fact, he enjoyed today so much that he fell asleep the moment he stumbled into his shack," said the Dragonborn, shifting. "His smile hasn't worn off since. I don't think he's ever had this much fun, ever. Today was the happiest day of his life."

"It's his last," I said bluntly.

"That is true," replied the Dragonborn. "But, to die happy... that is what I can give him, and I have. He will know no more painful days. No more hunger, no more thirst."

"How are you going to do it?" I asked, still not looking back. "Slit his throat? A stab to the heart? Surely you're not going to bash his head in."

"Poison in his soup," replied the Dragonborn. "I made it myself. Odourless, tasteless, brings paralysis within four hours of consumption and permanent sleep in seven. It's very slow, but potent."

"So you're here to see it through," I finished.

"I have always admired your deduction skills," said the Dragonborn. "You are correct."

"When will it happen?"

"Around now." His armour clinked as he moved. There was a soft rustling, and then more clinking. "His pulse is gone. Narfi Ivarstead has died."

"Has been murdered," I said. The rain was still pouring heavily, but if I had to get soaked, then so be it. "I'm out of here."

"Wait, Lydia!"

"I'm leaving. Goodbye, Dragonborn."

As I was about to step out, I was grabbed roughly by the arm.

"Watch it!" I snarled, flinging a punch at him. He took it squarely in the face, but it hardly did anything, judging from the lack of pain on his face. Our eyes met, after Talos knows how long, since we split up on that day...

"Please, Lydia. Just hold on." He let go and fumbled about on his person. His arm extended and held out a letter, sealed with crimson wax. "I... Take this." He sighed, and I saw the faintest signs of his shoulders trembling, although it could have been my mind playing tricks on me. "Everything I have wanted to say... But the one thing that I realized... No, I'm getting my words mixed up." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "I've been meaning to tell you this, the one thing I could say but never did. I've been foolish to leave it for so long, but, hey, better late than never, right?"

He looked straight into my eyes, and I into his. They seemed to quiver. I tried my best to muster ice into mine, but I can't say what I looked like for sure.

"Thank you. Thank you, sincerely, for everything. And... I'm sorry."

With that, he walked out in the rain. The drizzle turned into a downpour, and his silhouette blurred until there was nothing left to be seen. By the time the rain eased up, he had disappeared.


	15. Interlude 3: The Letter, 1

Dear Lydia,

As you read this message, I will most likely be destroying the Dark Brotherhood. When, if you do choose to look for me, you find me, it will have been over. You do not need to trouble yourself to come. All I dare ask is that you please bear with me and read this letter to the very end. Do not stop. Do not leave your house until you have finished this letter. When you have done so, please destroy it. Burn it with fire, then scatter the ashes in the closest river. Time is of the essence, although, if you hold this in your hands, time probably won't matter any more.

Dearest Lydia, this letter is proof that I have decided to choose you over the world.

Firstly, I want you to remember one thing. Do not forget this. Do not ever forget this. Do not doubt. Do not waver. Remember this, even if you forget everything else written here: firstly, this world is real. You are real, just as Whiterun, Solitude, dragons and the war are real. You are real and your friends and family are real. Everyone you know is real. You're not just some dream or some illusion. You're flesh and blood, living, breathing, and real.

Secondly, this world, as real as it is, is subject to a higher authority named Bethesda.

You know about the Aedra and the Daedra. You know about gods and how they are purposed to rule the land. You also know about force, how, if you throw something, it moves, and gravity, how we all are drawn to the ground. You know how plants will grow, and animals will feed, and how the sun shines and day and night move.

Bethesda's rule is like that. It's the power of nature itself, and governs this world. I don't know what Bethesda is exactly or how it rules. I don't know if its true name is Bethesda, although I see that word sometimes in my dreams. I dream occasionally of things, of the creation of the world, and I see that one name, glittering in the dark void, right before the world is created - lines, curves, then squares and textures, and so I came to the conclusion, but I digress.

This world is real. Do not forget.

I am the Dragonborn. You've travelled with me for a year. You have witnessed me do many great and amazing things. You've probably noticed a strangeness to my actions. How I can absorb dragon's souls, use the Voice with such ease, craft items and materials with the flick of a wrist... All that I can do, I believe, is because of Bethesda's blessing - although I'm inclined to call it a curse.

You see, I can do many things, but in exchange, I am subjected to another's will.

The best comparison I can think of is being possessed, although that's not exactly true. It's like someone else's will is imprinted upon me. I'm perfectly aware of what I do, and I do not have any heartfelt hatred or objection to it, as if it were my will, even though it's not really my will... It's best to not delve into this too much, and I accept wholly the responsibilities of all my actions. It doesn't change the fact that I might have bent the rules of the law a little. I realize this. But what I want to tell you is that I'm not completely me. Or, at least, I wasn't, until recently.

Can you remember the feeling of learning? For instance, with cooking, you gradually come to terms with what ingredients works with what, or how hot the fire should be. How much salt to add, how much pepper... you stop relying on recipes and measurements and just do it. You pick up things, you get a grasp on how it works. For me, almost everything is like this. I can't begin to describe how it feels. It's like... It's like the knowledge of the world is locked away behind doors, and I have the keys to them. I can see just how to mash a butterfly wing to extract its juice, or how to use the skin of jazby grapes to make a poison. I somehow know the right angle to strike the anvil, the right glowing red of the metal before tempering. It unravels as I set my hands to it. Life's schools of thought have opened up to me so much, and what I see with these eyes of mine... I cannot even begin to tell you the mysteries behind what we take for granted, how steel comes to be, how leather is hardened, how gold is refined.

Our world is real. But it's not the only one. Up until a time, we existed in one world. At a certain point, our world split. I know; I watched as it happened, in an existence above our own. Somewhere beyond the heavens is a world exactly like ours, but more heavily watched, controlled, and we live in the second, where I am more free to roam. I grew to realize that the imposing will of Bethesda was becoming weaker and weaker, and my own grew stronger and stronger. It was then that I started truly thinking and remembering once more. It is what I think is called a "save state". We are in an alternate save state, and because of that, we are free - more free, at any rate, than our complements in the other, active save state.

Do you remember that night when you asked me about my parents? They were both killed by the Dark Brotherhood. They were taken in the dead of night, when I was but an orcling of seven. A man in black robes came and killed them both with a poisoned dagger. It was not a quiet sort of poison. They writhed and twitched for a while until they finally breathed their last. I think they were holding in their screams for my sake, even though I was awake and watching from the crack in the door. Or so I like to think, that my parents would be as heroic as to bear such pain for the sake of their child... I swore on their graves that I would avenge them.

But Bethesda chose me to be the Dragonborn, and that changed everything. Bethesda has strict rules regarding our actions and events and choices regardless of save state. None of us can fly. We cannot drink water with our toes or eat with our knees. I can't kill children - not that I would ever want to. Attacking a guard in one corner of a city immediately lets the whole city know, regardless of how fast or slow the news is supposed to spread. Haven't you wondered about these? There are some mountain faces that I simply cannot climb, and even then, the only way I can climb is by jumping, and there are barriers at the farthest edges of the world which I simply cannot cross.

In the same way, there's only one course of action I'm allowed to take if I wish to "lawfully" destroy the Dark Brotherhood. What this course of action is, well, I'll spare you the details. Al you need to know is that if I take it, I am allowed to kill members of the Dark Brotherhood as simply as if they were elk. The catch is that course doesn't allow me to kill Babette, Cicero or the Night Mother. Babette is a vampire and a supplier of potions for the Brotherhood; Cicero is the Keeper of the Night Mother, and the Night Mother, well, she - it - the name's rather self-evident, isn't it?

I cannot fulfill my promise unless I'm able to remove at least the Night Mother, because she is the root and soul of the Dark Brotherhood. Only by killing her will the Dark Brotherhood be truly destroyed.

A second course of action lets me gain access to everyone in the Dark Brotherhood, but they become unkillable. I don't know how that works, but such is Bethesda's rule. Can you kill a stone? No. My guess is that it's the same for the Dark Brotherhood once I follow that route, that Bethesda's protection or whatever activates upon them as soon as I take that set of actions. That taking the second route triggers this protection, so to speak.

You can see how this becomes a bit of a dilemma for me. I spent three years travelling the world, soon after Bethesda revealed to me my destiny, and how it interfered with my ultimate goals. I searched the corners of the earth for a way around it. I visited libraries and read piles and piles of books, looking for lore or any deity that could assist me. After all, who better to appeal against a higher force than another higher force? That's when I found Sheogorath, Daedric prince of madness - or rather, he found me.


	16. Interlude 4: The Letter, 2

It was in the Blue Palace in Solitude that he found me. I was just about to end another fruitless day of reading when the words on the page of my book started moving. They rearranged themselves and I watched, stunned, as they spelled out: "What are you looking for, Hero?"

I go by a few names, the most popular of which you are familiar with, but "Hero" was a new one. Especially when it was coming from a history book as thick as my fist. I didn't know how to reply - or if I should at all. The book took care of that, though, and continued: "You are amusing. Come to the Pelagius Wing and we shall chat."

A being with that sort of power was the key to my problem, or a prank-pulling magician that needed a solid, weighty lesson in meddling. For the past three years I had been wandering, not even getting a hint of a lead. I wasn't about to throw away the first I had in ages. I steeled myself and headed over.

When I tested the door handle, it was locked. I tried pushing against it only to fall through the door, and that was when Sheogorath revealed himself. He had taken on the form of a Nord dressed in nobles' clothes, tall with white hair and pupils that swirled.

"Just in time for tea," he chirped, and floated me off my feet to the innermost chambers of the wing with an unseen force. Despite the warning bells ringing in my head, I chose not to tear him into pieces. I had to play along. More importantly, as I would find out, tearing a Daedric prince into pieces isn't very doable. As we walked, he introduced himself to be Sheogorath, Daedric prince of madness, along with a whole lot of nonsensical talk which I tried my best to reply. The chamber was completely dark save for the faint blue aura surrounding him; after what felt like hours of turning and drifting, we walked into a room. It was richly furnished, with velvet carpets, bookshelves lining the walls and a large fireplace in full blaze. After my eyes got adjusted to the light, I took a seat at the table in the centre of the room.

"So, Hero of Skyrim, what doth thy quest?" he asked. With a clap of his hands, a pure white teapot, very fragile-looking, manifested itself and clattered on to the table along with five tiny cups. "Or, in plainer terms, why are you here in Solitude? I expect you to answer, and I will be very sorely disappointed if you do not tell me everything." He giggled and took out a staff from seemingly nowhere. He gave the teapot a tap and it turned into a chicken, squawking as it flew off, dragging the rest of the cups on to the floor with a painful smash. "I know, I know, you must be frightened and confused, not knowing where to start. We all are. I'm doing this for your good, you know. If I just let you be, I'd be staring at you, and you'd be staring at me, and then we'd be wasting time. Allow the impeding doom of failure to be your guide."

I spilled everything I knew, from the moment I saw my parents killed until my travels to Solitude. All the while, he picked at his fingers and drank out of a sixth teacup he had pulled out from his sleeve, even though there was nothing in it. When I had finished, he offered me the cup. I accepted lest I offend him.

"In short, you wish to challenge Bethesda's will," he grinned, before bursting into gutsy laughter. "That's amazing! I'm the prince of madness and I think you're crazy! Good, good, very good indeed!"

"Can you help me?" I finally asked, when the laughter died down.

"Let me explain this world and myself a little better to you," he said. "You see, the strongest power in this world aside from Bethesda itself are the Elder Scrolls. In each season, it falls to a different person in a different part of the world, under different circumstances, to use the scrolls, usually to bring balance to the world - boring stuff, really. I am your predecessor - I was the Hero of Kvatch, who brought balance to the world in my time and place before you. You are the Hero of Skyrim, for this is your place and your age. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I replied.

"How boring," he pouted. "At least try to show some confusion."

"I'm sorry?"

"Better," he said. "Now, I understand your situation best, having walked in your shoes before, and to be honest, I rather like you. You and I, we have a connection, I feel. So I shall assist you. Understand, though, that I am merely the god of madness. I cannot override Bethesda's will nor laws directly."

"So what can you do?"

"Not much," Sheogorath said, and shrugged. "More tea?"

"No thank you." I pressed on. "Every little bit will help. I am greatly in your debt."

"No, you aren't," he said, waving his hand with a long smile that seemed to stretch past his face. "But you will be."

Sheogorath made it so that I would be able to take the second option and kill every member of the Dark Brotherhood, even the Night Mother. The condition, however, was that I was, and I quote: "not allowed to speak of it to anyone, as long as I lived on the earth, not even after the deed was done", and that I was only allowed to do so should I exist in a second save state. He would make it so that Bethesda's sight over the Brotherhood's sanctuary be clouded, and with that, the special protection granted to them would disappear. However, informing someone would bring about Bethesda's attention and subsequent wrath, and not even Sheogorath could tell what would happen to the world then. It is definitely certain, however, that it would not be good. It sounded like an amazing trade at the time, and I agreed without a second thought (and even now, I still believe it is a fair deal).

When I stepped out, a guard saw me, and I was captured for the desecration of a sacred site as well as trespassing. My sentence was not heavy enough to warrant death, but I was hauled on to the cart to be beheaded anyways, in a small town called Helgen... you know how the rest of the story goes.

As it stands, Bethesda is wary of me. You may have heard the dragons speak during our encounters with them. They are not supposed to be able to, at least, not to those not gifted with the Voice. They have said that I defy nature. That is true, and now, you understand why. Sheogorath told me many other things that day, and one of them was that Bethesda cannot discern my innermost thoughts and desires clearly, unlike the rest of Skyrim's inhabitants. Yes, Bethesda sees your thoughts - that's why I'm certain that at this moment, action will be taken against me. All it can do is sense the general gist of my desires, although, apparently, that is enough reason for it to act. It has been sending its servants as a warning. Dragons are its favourite, being the most powerful creatures in Skyrim; they hound my heels and will continue to do so until it stops sensing me going contrary to its law - which will be when the Dark Brotherhood is purged from Skyrim.

Or, at least, so I thought - until I met you.

This world is real. It's so obvious now, but I used to think otherwise. The way Sheogorath put it, all the things he said... It was as if I were the only one with a mind that thought individually. That the rest of the world - and I know this sounds egoistical - was generated solely for Bethesda's purpose of saving the world through me. That you, the villagers of Skyrim, Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl, the Thalmor... all of them were just puppets that carried out Bethesda's will without a trace of personality. But then, I got to know you, and you started saying things which, under normal circumstances, you should not be able to say, and doing things you shouldn't be able to do... I realized that I was not alone in the world after all. That there was someone else who could think and want and feel and need, on their own.

I don't have any evidence to show that I'm right. In fact, most of the people I've met prove the opposite - I can see the structure in their speech and actions where Bethesda is controlling them, how it reminds me constantly that this world very well may be fake and just a construct of Bethesda. But for you... I believe. I believe in you, and I want to believe in you. I can't ignore it. I can't turn back.

That's why, dearest, dearest Lydia, I've written you this letter. It's selfish, but I don't want to be alone anymore, and I don't want you to be in the dark. I want to come clean to you at last. I want you to truly be my companion, not just a follower, perhaps even my friend, if you can forgive me for all I've done. To know what I'm doing and why, not just to simply do as I ask and go where I walk. Even if it means the worst punishment Bethesda can inflict on me, I'm willing to take that risk.

To do that and to be truly free, we need to leave this world. I haven't found a way how to, but I'm getting close.

We are drawing close to the end of the letter. When you have done as I asked, if you wish to find me, and the world has not yet collapsed on itself, seek out M'aiq the Liar. He waits at the mouth of Valthume, south of Rarikstead. He is a master of loopholes and trickery; it was he who suggested that I write this letter, rather than tell you by mouth - note the first condition is worded to say "speak", not "inform" or such. If you are still alive, then that is proof of his genius. He may seem like a Skooma-addled Khajit, and to some extent, he is, but his spirit has been passed down from previous generations, and he has Bethesda's favour upon him. He will know where I am.

I am sorry for all that I've ever put you through. I don't expect you to come, or in fact do anything I asked you to. I don't deserve to. You've been good to me, and I cannot thank you enough for everything you've done. It would make me the happiest man alive if I could ever see you again.

Sincerely,

Three Point One


	17. Chapter 13

Dear Diary,

I got a letter from the Dragonborn today. I've read it, burnt it, and tossed the ashes into the river like he asked me to.

All I have to say is this: he's an idiot.

He's the stupidest idiot ever to exist on this earth if he can think up something so ridiculous and expect me to just accept it.

So I'm going to go over, and find this Ma-whatever Liar person in Rarikstead, get the whereabouts of the Dragonborn, and firmly give him a piece of my mind.

Because I'll be damned if I just let this pass by me.

Yes, that's what we're going to go with. Honestly? All this Bethesda stuff just sounds like a case of one bad mushroom too many. But destroying the Dark Brotherhood and ridding the world of a terrible evil, when I mistook him for doing the opposite...

Anyone would have made that assumption given the circumstances, all right? It's perfectly understandable! He should be apologizing to me for making me misunderstand, and do it to my face like a man. No, the previous few times didn't count. Yes, that's exactly what we're going to go with. Yes.

Although...

I admit, I feel just a bit happy. I mean, I did miss him a little. Not that he was important, well, he kinda is - he's the Dragonborn - but, well... personally important, I mean. You know, it's just the plain niceness of having someone to eat dinner with or to sit around a campfire by. And it's cheaper to travel in pairs, and it's not like I can stay at my sister's place forever. So I guess maybe he is personally important by a tiny bit.

Just a bit, okay?

Oh, Talos, I hope nobody reads this, ever. Ever.

Looks like I have to start packing.

Love,

Lydia


	18. Chapter 14

Dear Diary,

It's taken forever, travelling on foot, but I finally found him, in the middle of some nameless forest in front of some nameless crypt.

M'aiq is a strange character. Most Khajit are, in their shady ways. I think it's the prevalence of skooma in their culture that causes it. I mean, a drug that puts you into a trance for hours on end, when there's plenty of work to be done while the day is light? To make and spend time trying to perfect the blasted thing, as if it were an art, takes a certain something in a person, let alone an entire race. No to mention their sticky fingers and penchant for banditry, and how the black market of Skyrim is practically owned by their lot... Makes sense, therefore, that he and the Dragonborn get along.

Well, "get along" isn't quite the term I'd use. Maybe "mutual reckoning".

"So you must be Lydia," M'aiq said, in that silky, purring voice of his. "M'aiq is not pleased to meet you."

It's common knowledge that the Khajit speak in third person, calling themselves by name rather than "I" like the rest of the hardworking population. I didn't expect them to be rude on first contact, though. "I'm not too thrilled myself," I snorted. "But he said you know where he is, and I want to know too."

"M'aiq is not the one you seek; I am not he," he replied. "M'aiq is not under a curse to lie whenever M'aiq wishes to tell of relevant information."

I crossed my arms. "Okay, fine. So where is M'aiq?"

"You obviously understand," he sighed. "M'aiq is not the one you seek. M'aiq is not cursed to lie whenever I wish to tell of relevant information."

"Yeah, you said that already, and I'm asking you again: where is M'aiq?" I said.

Now that I'm writing this in hindsight, I feel rather silly for not getting it faster.

"Maiden," he said, with amazing patience, "is M'aiq not a liar? Think."

"I... guess so," I said, after some thought. "You're M'aiq the Liar. Or not. Wait, hold on..."

"So would my words not be lies?" he said.

I scratched my head. "Yeah, so?"

"So then," he said, "M'aiq is not the one you seek, and M'aiq is not under a curse to lie whenever-"

"Ohh. Ohhhh." I got it at last. All right, so I was a bit slow in coming around, but he didn't have to look so relieved, the weasel.

"Thank you," M'aiq said. "Anyhow, M'aiq does not know where the Dragonborn is."

"Which means you do know," I nodded.

"No," he said, nodding back. "He is not in the sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood. And that sanctuary is not in the forest west of Falkreath."

"He's still there? But why?" I asked. "Shouldn't he have been done by now?"

"Is it not because of the Night Mother?" he said, smiling grimly. "Does not the Night Mother have more strength than he expected, just as M'aiq did not foretell? But perhaps you will see for yourself."

I had to ask: "What's with the rhetorical questions?"

"It is not M'aiq's way of side-stepping his curse," replied M'aiq. "M'aiq is allowed to outright give information. However, questions count as outright telling. Hence they are not allowed."

I mumbled what he said to myself until it made sense.

"Ah. Okay. What a troublesome curse it is you're under."

"Does not immortality come with a price?" he said, shrugging. "Bethesda is normal like that."

"Wait, so do you mean it's normal for Bethesda to do that, or unusual? Not normal?"

"Is it not both?" said M'aiq. He sounded almost sad, for some reason, and I could've sworn that his ears were drooping. "Bethesda... ah, Bethesda. Bethesda is not an enigma, to say the least."

I suddenly got the feeling that something didn't add up. I pressed him for more. "But the Dragonborn said that you had the favour of Bethesda on you. So why are you cursed?"

"Is the Dragonborn the most reliable source of information?" countered M'aiq, with a sharp flick of his tail. "M'aiq does not tell anything but truth, and will always tell the truth. The Dragonborn, and any person for that matter... they are not as absolutely truthful as M'aiq is."

"Are you suggesting that the Dragonborn is a liar?" I asked slowly.

"Perhaps," replied M'aiq, with a wink that begged to be punched hard.

"I'd rather take my chances with him than you, to be honest." I rolled my eyes. "Forest west of Falkreath, right? Sure. That'll be good enough. Thank you."

"Wait, maiden," said M'aiq, stepping forward. "M'aiq did not mean to offend. M'aiq simply - argh!"

My reflexes kicked in and I caught him as he fell, as if the strength had suddenly left his legs. What I was not prepared for was the violent shuddering as he struggled against my grasp, breaking free and falling to the ground, grunting in quick, pained breaths. His eyes were squeezed tight, and his tail, shoulders and knees were twitching wildly.

"M'aiq! What's going on?" I couldn't do anything but watch, helpless, as the shakings travelled up and down his body. I fumbled for any potions I might have on my, but I had none, and the Khajit shoved me away if I stepped as much as one step closer to him. With a groan and seemingly titanic effort, judging from the tears in his eyes and his gasps, he managed to turn and prop himself up on his arms, face inches away from the ground. It was only then that he looked up at me.

"Come," he whispered, and I complied.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to-"

"It is... not your fault," coughed M'aiq, clutching at his chest seconds after the words left his lips. "M'aiq... needs to make this clear. You, maiden, you and the Dragonborn... you are risking more than your lives, getting entangled with Bethesda. You do not know the whole truth." He moaned again, burying his face in the soil, his claws digging into the dirt in a vice grip. "Bethesda, and the daedra, who are but Bethesda's hands and feet... you are such a trusting one. Will that be the end of you? M'aiq... Would not M'aiq wonder?" He made another effort to look me in the eye. "Trifle with Bethesda as little as you must, maiden, and if possible, convince the Dragonborn to stay hidden too. Nothing good will come out of it. Whatever he is planning, it will be very hard for it to bear fruit. See... behold M'aiq's agony. Behold M'aiq's curse."

I stayed with him in front of the entrance for an hour or so, until his breathing returned to normal and he could sit upright again. The sun was thankfully mild, and the trees provided much-needed shade. All the while, I repeated M'aiq's words to myself, trying to find something of note in them. He hadn't been lying then. I was sure of it. The sheer, raw pain in his eyes as he looked at me couldn't have possibly been an act.

"Tell me," I said. "The pain just now. Was it part of the curse?"

"Are you not perceptive, maiden?" said M'aiq, nodding. "M'aiq's curse is pleasant. A question for you: what is worse than a deal which cannot be broken?"

A deal that cannot be broken, huh? Instinctively I thought of the Dragonborn's promise to his parents, and, for some reason, my own oath when I took up the position of housecarl. It had been such a long time ago...

"I don't know," I replied.

"The answer is a deal which can be broken," replied M'aiq, gazing into the distance. "For you have the choice, the power to break or to keep the deal. And when you break the deal, you are at the mercy of the one whom you agreed to. Anything that befalls you is your own fault and yours alone. For deals which cannot be broken, there is no second option. But for deals which can be broken..." He flourished his arms, pointing to himself.

I half-expected him to break into shudders again. I suppose it must have shown on my face, because he noticed and sniggered.

"Maiden, M'aiq must tell the truth at all times, lest his curse remain dormant," he replied. "But are there not some truths which abound above the laws of the land? Are there not certain truths which cannot be twisted?"

He sounded so profound that day, even though I didn't quite get it at the time. Actually, I still sort of don't, but I'm pretty sure there's a deeper meaning to all of it.

"You still haven't told me why you're cursed," I said, just before leaving. I was genuinely curious, after all.

"Maiden," he said, with that dark, wide grin of his, "do you need to know?"

He refused to speak with me after that. Whenever I spoke to him, he would simply turn away and shake his head. It was all right, though. I knew that he had said more than he was obliged to. I'd even dare to say that I respect him for it, at the end of the day. It's just, now, I can't help but wonder just what exactly am I getting myself into. Because if all of this is leading to where I think it's leading, then...

Ahh, who am I kidding. I can't even imagine where all of this is going, and I bet any effort to would be futile. All I need to do is find the Dragonborn and things'll start making sense. Because, and I realize this now, I really do trust him.

Huh. Who'd have thought that the day would come when going to the Dragonborn equals things making sense?


	19. Chapter 15

Dear Diary,

I remember, a long time ago, before Bethesda, before the Greybeards, even before we got to know each other, when the Dragonborn and I went mountain climbing.

Put shortly, I don't do mountain climbing.

Look at it this way: Nords are born, raised and laid to rest on the ground. We spend our entire lives on grassy plains and dark soil. Only a select few with select issues - the mages of Winterhold and the Greybeards, says it all, really - choose to spend their days towering above the world as if there were anything good up there. Judging from all the mountains I've seen on my travels, there isn't. It's not natural. It doesn't make sense, y'know, to go and meander up some ridiculously tall slope for no particular benefit.

Well, that, and I'm not really fond of heights. Okay, fine, really not fond of heights.

Yes, I went up to the Throat of the World without much of a problem, but we were covered in blizzard back then. You couldn't see past an arm's length, let alone a few hundred feet's worth of depth. It was the only thing the blizzard was good for, to allow me to conveniently ignore the fact that we were elevated so high that a single slip would find us crushed to powder when we stopped falling.

I mean, seriously, tall mountains. They're just not normal! They're barren and wasted and swarming with monsters and tall. Very tall.

One day, the Dragonborn decided that we would go climb one.

I didn't dare to object back then, still somewhat enamoured with the idea that I was going to help save the world. So I, with my silly maiden's heart, worked up the courage to climb the boulders that led up to, as fate would have it, the peak that shared a mountain base with High Hrothgar itself. If you look at the map, you'll see that next to the castle is a slightly lower peak with nothing on it. Yep, that was the first mountain I ever climbed.

I was eager to learn, I admit, but five minutes of observing the Dragonborn made me think twice about it.

You see, the Dragonborn doesn't climb up slopes and rocky hills. He jumps.

Yes, he jumps, repeatedly, sometimes as if there were invisible footholds for him to step in mid-air. And sometimes, he even manages to hang in the air as if floating.

Back then, I blamed the weather and my dizziness. It was just me seeing things, I told myself. Couldn't have been anything else, surely, since people cannot jump in mid-air nor float. It's the way the world works - well, at least, for people like me. In hindsight, it could have been due to the Dragonborn's unique approach to the world. And it very well might have been. But I digress.

Anyways, he starts jumping up the face of the mountain, and I'm stuck trying to figure out how to get up there. I supposed that there was a path of some sort that I could climb, so I decided to circle the foot of the mountain to look for one. I soon realized that I was being stupidly idealistic, hoping for a smooth way up (as well as actually thinking there was a point to the trip in the first place). The next best thing, though, was bits of flat surface within a long jump's range of each other. Carefully, I made my way up these little strips, alternating between walking and scaling until I finally got somewhere. It must have been my lucky day, because I reached the peak at the same time as the Dragonborn.

He turned to face the world below. We were at a crazy height of much-too-high, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from buckling completely.

There stood the Dragonborn, tall and proud, at the edge of the peak, shoes buried in the thick snow. He sucked in a deep breath, and shouted: "Fus!" After a while, he shouted again. And again, and again, into the cold, empty sky, at the sheet of white spread at his feet, his voice ripping into the clouds. It was almost majestic, the way the ground trembled with every breath, and how small I suddenly felt, looking all around me. The mountain went down for miles and miles, easily. It was just me and him on the peak. Two, tiny people, floating above a sea of rock in a sea of air. One destined to save the world, the other destined to lug copious amounts of clothing across Tamriel.

It was probably the only time I ever saw him be proud of being the Dragonborn.

He never outright said it, mind, but everything about his back, the straightness, how he looked up to the horizon, said, "I'm king of the world!", or something fanciful like that. It was truly a sight to behold, and it's flashing even now as I write it out. The crisp taste of dry air. The tightness in my chest due to the thin atmosphere. The way the air around my ears would shudder, somehow, as the force of his shouts took them in passing. And that lonely, yet sturdy, proudly raised back of his, decked in plate armour looted from some poor soul he had encountered on his first trip to Whiterun.

It was as if he were almost happy to be the chosen one.

Thinking back, knowing what I do now, I have to wonder whether the Dragonborn I know was the same as the Dragonborn back then. Because, I gotta admit, I was rather in awe of him at the time, although that was lost shortly after he started a killing spree of elk and such in the forest for no apparent reason. And that Dragonborn of ages ago seemed a lot more at ease. What did he call it? A second save state? Something to do with being possessed, too. Who was it that I saw on the mountain that day?

I wonder what sort of person it is that "possessed" him back then, if he were possessed at all. It's a strange person, I would say, that would go through the effort of climbing an unnamed mountain just for the view and for the feel of it, to look down upon all the nations with that sort of satisfied pride. Still, if Bethesda's as unpredictable as M'aiq claims it to be, then I'd best be on my guard. The worst thing you could do is grow fond of your true enemy, even if that true enemy is no more than a shadow of a memory.


	20. Chapter 16

Dear Diary,

I reached the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary after a week or so. They have an extremely unappealing swamp in front of their door. Just thought I should mention that.

The door in question had an evil-looking skull on it, with a hand-print that looked like a child's first endeavor into art. I approached it and it asked, "What is the music of life?" There was no handle, much less a doorbell or a knocker. It was evident that I had to answer the question to open the door.

"Uh. Polka?" I tried.

"You are not worthy," it replied.

So I stood there and waited, trying to figure out how to enter, when it asked me the same question.

I decided to give it some proper thought. This was the door to the Dark Brotherhood, and the Brotherhood was chock full of ritualism and bloody murder. The key to entry was, it was reasonable to guess, either philosophical or related to death.

"The sound of a target's final breath," I said proudly.

"You are not worthy."

"How about, uh, the cracking of bones as I pound them to dust?" I asked.

"You are not worthy," it replied.

This wasn't turning out very well. "Do you give hints, or something?"

"You are not worthy."

"So is that a yes, you do give hints, but I'm not worthy to get them? Is that what you're saying?" I said - or, at least, I would have, until I realized that I was talking to a door. Admittedly, it talked back, but all it said was that one line, and you can hardly call that proper talking.

So I put down my knapsack, did a bit of stretching, and gave that door a full-powered kick. It didn't stand a chance, and the sound of the crash was music to my ears. As I made my way in, I couldn't help but smirk. Who's worthy now? Pfft.

The first thing that hit me was the musk. It was the stench of moist soil, mixed with incense, mixed with some sort of rancid food, mixed with rancid blood. A few more steps down the chamber revealed corpses that had been left for what could have been weeks. There were no flies or maggots, possibly because of the amount of deathbell everywhere - the scent of them keeps most animals away - but the flesh of the slain were rotten and pale, and there was no fresh blood, only cakes of black in splatters here and there. I began to choose my steps carefully. Thankfully, the torches showed me clearly which tiles were clean and which weren't. I didn't want the plague on my boots, after all.

After a while, I figured out that the Dragonborn had indeed killed pretty much everyone in here. I sheathed my sword and progress got a little faster. Unlike him, I had no interest in potions on the shelves or bits of food lying around on tables, so it wasn't long until I finally reached the chamber where he was.

It was surprisingly cold in the room, as if someone had carried in a barrel of snow. It was paved with stone all around, and foul candles hung everywhere, on the walls and on a rusty candelabra overhead. To the far side of the room was something that looked like an upright coffin made of metal. Its doors had been ripped off, and at the foot of the coffin was a pile of dust. And sitting in front of the pile of dust, back to me, cross-legged, was the Dragonborn.

He turned, saw me, and slowly got up.

"It's you," he said at last, blinking. "You came."

"Did some redecorating, I see," I said, making a half-hearted gesture at the surroundings. "Painting the walls and things. Classy." I wondered whether I should look at him. He was quite close up now, and hadn't been so for a long time. "Uh. So. You've... taken care of business."

"Yeah," he replied. He fidgeted for a moment, shuffling his feet, before saying, "Lydia. I'm really glad you came. I'm so sorr-"

"Shut up." Now I definitely couldn't look at him. I found the floor to be fascinating all of a sudden. Yes, that's totally it. It wasn't because I felt my neck get hot all of a sudden or anything, right? No siree. I took a look at the rest of him. Couldn't help it, really, since at that distance he was filling up most of my view. He was dressed in what I guessed was a spare change of clothing, a rough cut of leather shirt-and-pants. At least it was clean.

"What happened to the armour?" I asked him.

"It's in the corner over there," he said, pointing to it. And there it was. "I really need to get it cleaned, and it was pretty heavy, so I put it down for a bit."

"Glad you realize just how heavy it is," I muttered.

"Yes," he replied, "I do at last. But for some reason, everything feels so much more lighter. Now that you're here, that is." There was a pause. "And not because I want you to carry all of my stuff again. Just saying. You know, feeling light in the metaphorical sense. Because I've done a number on the Dark Brotherhood and all, finally. And because you've come back. You know."

I may or may not have grinned the widest, stupidest grin in my life, and he may or may not have returned the grin.

And I may or may not have hugged him, because I'll be damned a hundred times over if I wasn't truly, madly happy from the depths of my heart at seeing him once more.


	21. Interlude 5

Alcohol consumption was a fundamental part of Nord culture, as deeply ingrained into society as sword wielding, meat carving and breathing. It was natural for taverns to be treated with a similar reverence as one would treat shrines. One could visit any time one liked, but there were some things that one simply did not do once they had crossed the oaken doors: nasty things such as killing or gambling, although brawling and betting, usually on brawls, were perfectly fine. It was where father and son became brothers, rivals became friends, and the ugliest hag became a radiant angel blessed by Mara herself. It was where one practiced and celebrated Nord values, freedom from the burden of thought, and life in general, truly a place for joy.

To have Lydia's birthday celebration anywhere other than the Bannered Mare, the best tavern in Whiterun, would be an insult of the gravest degree.

The tavern was in full swing that night. Everyone from the lowliest door-watcher to the Jarl himself was there, making merry, wading through courses of beef and lamb with a manner that would give a bottomless pit a run for its money. Hulda was up to her arms in roasts, and had built four more makeshift cooking fires just for the occasion, roasting and hacking at the carcasses feverishly. Ysolda had stopped taking orders long ago; all she had to do was ferry as much beer as she could carry from the kitchen to the other side of the room, and the servings would solve themselves. The place was filled with stinging smoke, delicious aroma and raucous laughter, a full-on assault on all the senses that could be considered enjoyable only through the assistance of more ale.

The large scale of the party was uncommon, but certainly understandable. Lydia the housecarl was well-liked amongst the soldiers, partly on account of being young and female; her popularity had peaked even further when word of her exploits were passed around and exaggerated in the way of all market gossip. There were rumours of her slaying a dragon with her bare hands in the hills of Windhelm. Someone's brother's friend's sister-in-law claimed to have seen her walk out of the Dark Brotherhood's sanctuary, a string of freshly-lopped heads trailing behind her as proof of her gruesome victory. But the tale that championed over them all, possibly the only one that was true, was that she was companion to the Dragonborn, saviour of Skyrim, and that she was destined for greatness alongside him when the time came for them to liberate the world from the dragon onslaught.

"And now," proclaimed Aela, master-of-ceremony for the night, "we invite the one and only Dragonborn to present us with a song!"

Instantly the tavern exploded into a wave of fresh applause, and Three was shoved roughly to the front and made to stand on the chair that acted as a stage. He looked up and found a sea of bloodshot, unfocused eyes eagerly awaiting whatever entertainment he had to offer. He made a quick inventory of possible performances, and decided that he had none.

"I'm not very good," he began, swaying slightly from the sixth cup of ale forced on to him, but all hope of escape was quickly shouted down with mixed cries:

"You're the Voice user! Of course you can sing!"

"Come on, be a good sport!"

"That's okay, none of us are, even Mikael!"

"That's right," nodded Mikael happily, too drunk to object. This amused everyone greatly, and they burst into yet more laughter. His bard's lute was pried out of his hands gently and passed to the Dragonborn.

"Well," he said at last, "I do have this one song. It's in the Dragon tongue, and I think it's pretty catchy."

Judging by the immediateness of their cheers, Three thought, with considerable rue, how he could have sung nursery rhymes and they would lap it up anyway. There was no point in trying to back out; he might as well make the best of it. _Besides,_ the ale added, _it might even be fun._

"All right, but I want you all to sing along with me! Can you do it?" he yelled.

"Yeah!" shouted the chorus in reply.

"Can you?!"

"Yeah!"

"This song is called Dovahkiin. Sing with me!" A wide grin split across his face as he picked at the lute. He could forge swords with the blink of an eye; playing an instrument like this was no problem for him. "Hoo, hroh, hah! Come on, hoo, hroh, hah! This is the intro, come on... And you, you there, go 'Hoooo'... Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin! Come and save us far in! Cut your eye! Cut your cool! Far die arse must hide! Come along, come afar, so your sausage is raw! Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, oh my gawd you're hot!"

Meanwhile, at the counter on the other side of the tavern was Lydia herself, sitting with a young, blonde-haired man.

"I wonder what all the ruckus is about," frowned Lydia, turning. Her view was blocked by the wall of burly bodies of curious soldiers trying to get a look. She promptly gave up and settled for a smile as she shook her head.

"Quite an interesting man, the Dragonborn," said Liester, with a crisp, light laugh of his own.

"You wouldn't believe half of it," said Lydia, draining her cup. "Heh. But you can guess how things have been. Running around Skyrim really doesn't vary much, once you get into the habit of it. Hills and trees and snow and all that, you see. How have you been keeping? I haven't seen you in ages. I'm frankly stunned that you're the one that pulled all of this together."

"It's the least I can do, after all those years of you sticking up for me," said Liester with a wink. "As for me, I've been fine. Doing well. I'm getting my butt kicked less by Irileth in training, though she still calls me half-elf from time to time. Which, I am, but still."

"You haven't changed, have you? I told you already that you're being too sensitive about that," said Lydia, rolling her eyes. "So you're a half-elf. It's not a problem for me, and it's not a problem for other people in Whiterun. Just because they call you that doesn't mean they mean ill will against you for it. Hell, Irileth used to call me Dolly until I finally proved myself. Ah, memories." She sighed and spirited away a bottle of mead from the clutches of the man next to her, who was in a stupor. "The first time I ever caught a bandit alive. I wonder where he is, now. Last time I saw him was when I threw him into his prison cell. Probably dead, now, if the rats got to him."

"Lydia! There you are. I've been looking for you," a voice broke in. The sleeping man was hoisted gently to the ground and his seat was filled by the Dragonborn. He looked normal, as far as she was concerned. The grin on his face was still there, and he swayed slightly as he gripped the counter for support.

"Eh? Who's this?"

"Drag - er, my lord, this is Liester. Liester, the Dragonborn."

"It is an honour to meet you, sire," said Liester.

"Pretty chap you are, aren't you?" replied the Dragonborn.

"Isn't he, though?" smirked Lydia, reaching out an arm to squeeze him quickly on the shoulder. "I knew him since we were kids. He's half-elf, you know. Only just joined the guard, a couple of months back. Used to work in the cellars of Honningbrew Meadry, then he decided to be a man at last. He's the one who threw this party, by the way."

"Ah," was all the Dragonborn had to say. His back seemed to straighten up, and there was a hint of sourness in his voice, but Lydia was too overwhelmed to think much of it.

After a moment's quiet, Liester said, "Lydia, do you mind coming outside with me for a bit? I think I need some fresh air."

"Sure, let's," replied Lydia, and the two walked out, leaving the Dragonborn behind. He watched them weave their way past tables and staggering people with some difficulty, and a strange feeling started to brew in the recesses of his mind.

Being able to read the flow of nature and functions with ease, Three did not enjoy the state of murkiness his own thoughts were in. After bullying his poor, addled mind into working, he realized that he was jealous. It was not a hard conclusion to reach: despite all the alcohol, there was a single thought, amazingly coherent and focused, looping in his mind, and that was,

_She hugged him. She hugged the damn bastard._

"This won't do," muttered Three to himself, and he got up to chase after them.

After stumbling around for a few minutes, he saw them sitting on the river bank, gazing at the star-filled sky. He swallowed hard and bit his lip. Losing his cool at this point would be highly unfavourable. With measured steps, he walked over to them.

"Oh," said Lydia, noticing him - just as planned. "You're out here too?"

"I decided to take a walk. Good for the digestion, walks," Three replied off-handedly. "How's the fresh air tonight?"

"Better than inside, at any rate," laughed Liester. "I'm afraid I was never good with crowds."

"And yet you threw this party?" asked Three.

"Yeah. It's Lydia's special day, after all. She deserves nothing less than a roaring all-nighter. Come on, sit down, plenty of grass for everyone."

"I'm fine," shot Three. "Good for the digestion, standing up."

"I see," replied Liester.

There was a moment's lapse as the two humans resumed their gaze at the skies. Even out there, sounds of cheering could be heard, though distant and muffled. The soft trickle of the river at their feet, which their ears drank in readily, was a sharp contrast to the heated bustle of the tavern, as was the rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was a beautifully peaceful night.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" asked Three, not sounding sorry at all.

"Hmm? Nah, we were just talking about the past," said Lydia. "See, we were in the same orphanage, and he used to be bullied because of his ears. Nobody really spoke up about it until, one day, I decided to. It didn't stop, though, so I've been fighting his battles for a while until the orphanage closed down."

"I owe Lydia a great deal," said Liester, but he was quickly cut off.

"That's nice to know," said Three, "and good to hear, yeah. Anyhow, Lydia, we're leaving tomorrow."

"We are?" frowned Lydia. "But it's been only a week since we came back from Falkreath. What's the rush?"

"We've got to, uh, slay dragons. Yeah. Slay more dragons and save the world."

"That's new," said Lydia. "Well, I guess if you say so..."

"Can't I ask for you two to stay at least a few more days?" asked Liester. It might have been the brightness of the moon, or due to his elvish eyes, but there was a glimmer in his look that reminded Three of a child asking for his very first toy. "We have much to catch up on, and I'd love to hear about your adventures."

"No," sneered Three. "Destiny calls."

"That's a shame," sighed Liester. He sighed and stood up, dusting himself. "I guess I'll just have to ask you to put destiny on hold." He raised himself to his full height and met Three's gaze with a toothy grin. With a snap of his fingers, his body began to pulse with a dark aura.

"Uh oh," muttered Three, stepping back and drawing his maces. "Lydia, you probably want to get back."

"Dragonborn, Dragonborn," said the shadow-covered figure, in a light voice, "You do not want to do that, believe you me." The darkness dispelled suddenly to reveal the familiar form of an old man, richly dressed, with a thick, ebony cane.

"Sheogorath?" Three managed to say.

"You owe me a favour," said Sheogorath, "and I've come to collect."

"Wait, where's Liester?" shouted Lydia, scrambling to her feet. "What did you do to him?"

"My dear, I created him," replied Sheogorath, waving a hand irritably. "There was never a Liester in existence until I made him and implanted him in your memories. Here, perhaps this should help." He stepped forward suddenly and gave her a tap on the forehead with his cane. "Now think. Was there ever a Liester?"

"I..." She screwed her eyes and shook her head. "You..."

"Sheogorath, what's the meaning of all of this?" said Three, gripping his weapons tightly.

"I'm the Daedric prince of madness, my boy," replied Sheogorath with a leer. "You're asking a question that has no answer. But I suppose I was trying to make a point. To draw your attention. Because I want you to do something for me, and I want it done."

"Spit it out already," said Three.

Sheogorath tapped the ground lightly. "The Daedra are getting restless," he said. "There's rumours of an uprising. As a prince, you can see how this would be bothersome for me. Now I'd love to rain fire and brimstone on the lot, teach 'em a lesson the old-fashioned way, but that's not an accepted way to do things. No, I'm supposed to be diplomatic." He rolled his eyes at the word. "It's not good enough to remove the rebellion; I need to win their obedience. That's where you come in." He snapped his fingers again and conjured up the image of a rose-like staff, detailed with thorns along the tip.

"This," he said, "is the Sanguine Rose. In the hands of a mortal, it summons a single bound Daedric warrior, loyal and at your command. But in the hands of one such as myself, it becomes a tool for mass unification. Voile! Problem solved."

"Why don't you get it yourself?" said Three.

"If I could, I would have," shrugged Sheogorath. "It's Bethesda's limitations. We're not allowed to collect artifacts ourselves, only wield them, which is why we need servants and adventurers to sign on to the task. And besides, isn't it more fun to get someone to do it for you?" He gave Lydia a sideways glance. "Consider this to be payment for last time. And if you do well, there might even be tea and crumpets in store for you and for your... companion. Needless to say, you don't want to know what I'll do if you fail. It might put you off your midnight snack. Speaking of which," he added, stepping closer to him, "you seem to have put on weight. Here, look at that belly -"

"Don't touch me," snarled Three, brushing the prodding cane away. "Okay, I'll do it. You could have just asked nicely, you know."

"Could have. Don't want to," said Sheogorath, before bowing low and vanishing upon straightening up.


	22. Chapter 17

Dear Diary,

Last night's one hell of a blur, but somehow we've been roped into getting some sort of magic staff for Sheogorath. The Dragonborn doesn't seem too happy about it, and I don't feel too happy myself for some odd reason. It could be the hangover. Nah, it probably is the hangover. Aside from that, though, there's this weird feeling like I lost something, although all of my belongings are intact. Maybe it's paranoia now that I'm with the Dragonborn again. Heh.

I asked him why we're doing this quest, and he replied, because he owed Sheogorath a favour. That's... fair, I guess, although what M'aiq said back then suddenly makes a lot more sense. I don't want to be stuck with a grocery list of rare and dangeours artifacts to collect, after all.

Love,

Lydia


	23. Chapter 18

Dear Diary,

It's been a week. As much as I don't want to admit it, this doesn't seem to be a dream. If, however, it does end up being a dream, and I suddenly wake up lying on beautiful green grass to a blessedly freezing morning, I'm swearing off cheese and wine before bedtime forever.

I am stuck in a desert wasteland, although the correct name for the village I'm in is Goodsprings. And, if the residents are to be believed, it gets a lot worse beyond the borders - a ridiculously woeful thing to say, although I'm not inclined to disbelieve it.

Where do I begin? Let's start with the cave.

The Dragonborn led me to some cave off the top of his head in his usual manner, saying that Sanguine's Rose was in there. Fair enough; I've always wondered how he knows these things, but I never found an issue with it even before the big "I know everything" reveal. I was quite content to follow him, until we stepped into the cave itself.

It was pitch black, musty and cramped. I don't know anything more about it than that, because a few seconds after stepping in, I felt someone hit my head from behind, and I was knocked out. When I next woke up, it was to a horrible headache, some weird spinning thing above me, and to the man called Doc Mitchell.

"Woah there, miss. You may want to take it easy there," he said, in that slow drawl of his that I would grow used to in time. It was because I had tried to sit up, but my muscles cramped up, resulting in a magnificently uttered Nord swear rattling through the roof, pertaining to the unmentionables of an ogre.

"Who are you and where am I?" I asked. I was, understandably, a bit panicky, seeing as I was in some cabin all of a sudden. Not to mention I was out of my armour and in some sort of skin, although it didn't feel like a skin, and it was blue. Someone had changed my clothes in my blackout.

Before I could turn around and choke him - jumping to conclusions, what with all of my possessions gone, being in somewhere unfamiliar, you know, bad habit and all - he had grabbed a long piece of metal, called a tire iron, and laid it across my shoulders gently but firmly. "Hold it. Lie back down and I'll answer you what you need to know. First off, we need to get some of the basics sorted out. Have a look at yourself."

He handed me a mirror. I looked into it. I looked a good deal paler, and my hair was a mess, but it was me that stared back all right.

"Uhuh," I said.

"It's all part of the protocol," shrugged Doc Mitchell. "Even though you're a special case, some actions you just gotta do."

"What are you talking about?" I asked him.

"See, I give the hero his or her face. Normally, he decides what he's going to look like with that mirror there. However, you've already got a face, seeing as you're like us," he said. "Like us, as in, not the hero, I mean. Around these parts the hero's called 'the courier', though he isn't due for quite some time. I don't know what you calls 'em in your world or whatever, but I'm assuming you know him, else you wouldn't be here."

I asked him to repeat himself in Nordic. He laughed.

As I slowly got used to seeing things again, I looked at him - bald with tufts of whitened hair and a moustache, old, and wearing a scarf and a heavy-looking jacket quite different from the furs of Skyrim. I was on a bed, although mattress was the better term for it, given how bare-bones it was. The room was extremely dusty; the floorboards were grimy and wooden, as were the walls. Behind Doc Mitchell was a chair with spindly wheels attached to its sides.

"Miss, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it's 'cos of your concussion and not you playing dumb. But think, come on, now. You probably know someone who's supposed to save the world. Your world, I mean," he said.

"Uhuh," I said, which was the most intelligent thing I could muster at the time. "The Dragonborn."

"There we go." He nodded gravely. "And you play a special role to him. I'd guess that you're a follower of his. I myself am the first person the hero sees upon waking up, and he decides what his face looks like, and I teach him how to move and get about and so on."

"Uh... huh."

As if that made any sense!

And then it hit me.

"Wait," I said, sitting up properly now. "You know about all this chosen one business?"

"We all do," nodded Doc Mitchell. "I had a feeling you'd ask about that. You see, where you're from, I'm guessing only the chosen one - Dragon-something, you said - only he knows about how things truly work, how to save the world. Over here, most folks do know. We're a rather self-aware bunch, you could say. It's the courier - the hero - that doesn't know zilch. He's absolutely clueless about the controllers or Obsidian or Bethesda or the fact that he can learn skills way uncanny, he just -"

"You said Bethesda! You know about Bethesda?" I pressed.

"Look, we gotta get a couple of things done first. I'll tell you everything then."

That's when he introduced himself properly as Doc Mitchell, the man who patched me up after Victor, the robot, whatever that is, found me in the graveyard, wherever that was. He attended to me for, he claimed, three days, supplying me with water and nutrients through an Eye Vee. Confused? I know I was, and that was just the beginning.

You see, dear diary, I'm not in Skyrim anymore. I'm in a place called Earth. It's also under the rule of Bethesda, but not as strictly governed. There's a separate entity called Obsidian which acts more in control. It's the year 2281, and humanity was almost wiped out in a devastating war involving something called a nuclear bomb. Doc Mitchell says that it's like a giant explosion that leaves poison all over, and it shows. Have I mentioned that this is a desert wasteland? Because it is.

It's so alien here. There's not a scrap of green in sight. I thought Doc Mitchell's house was dirty before, but it's a polished goblet compared to the puke-stained tavern floor that is the outside. Outside, it's just stretches of nothing as far as the eye can see. Above the horizon is the sky, thankfully blue and clear, and below the horizon is sand. Sand. It's everywhere. There are crumbling, worn, stone roads. There are houses that look like shacks, made of planks and whitewashed. They're simple houses, weathered and whittled like beggars' huts. There are sad garden patches with shrivelled tendrils of weird plants, and the occasional monstrosity - some sort of cow, which gives milk, except that it has two heads and is a bright red. No, there's no need to try and imagine it. Everything else is sand. It's so drab. At least snow was a clean sort of white, and you had berries and mountain flowers. But here it's just dirty sand.

The air is dead and harsh. It could be because I grew up surrounded by Skyrim's cold, but Earth is swelteringly hot. There's no rest from the heat. The sun is so piercing and there's hardly any wind, and my suit sticks to me in all the wrong places because of the sweat. I'm really tempted to cut my hair short. It feels like there's an oven on the back of my head. I have no idea where my armour is, but for once I'm glad I don't have to wear it, because I am sure that sandwiching yourself in metal under these conditions will result in the slow baking of your kidneys. Even the nights are dull and warm. And there are no stars at all.

Somehow, that fact makes me feel sadder than usual. Like, a loneliness, or emptiness, like something should be there but isn't, aside from the nausea and general sickness.

See, there's also something else about the place that I can't quite describe. My head feels a bit heavier and my stomach gets these sudden churns every few days. The Doc thinks it's the "radiation", which was the poison from the war, that's getting to me. He's been giving me strange, bitter pills that ease the symptoms but never quite completely removes them. Almost everything, he says, is tainted with it, from the grains of sand stuck in my shoes to the food we eat, to the water, although Goodsprings' source is cleaner than most. There's no way to remove it, only medicine to purge it from your body post-ingestion, and building up natural resistance to it, or in other words, sucking it up.

I am stuck in this forsaken land and the Dragonborn is nowhere to be found.

All I have from him is a scrap of paper which said, "Luck 10, Wild Wasteland, meet at New Vegas". When Victor found me, said the Doc, there was nothing on me save for a singlet, shorts and the scrap of paper clenched in my hand.

Dosn't make sense? It does, somewhat, as I found out.

The Dragonborn once said that he could grasp skills really easily. I'm starting to get what he meant by it.

After a bit of a talk, the Doc had me walk over to a SPECIAL test - this machine with a knob on a stick that you could push in four directions. SPECIAL stands for Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility and Luck, which are pretty self-evident. I was told to allocate points to determine my skill set, how I'd do in life here. I won't go into how I came to determine my skills, but you can probably expect that I ended up with 10 points in both Strength and Luck, the maximum allowable. I had to take a couple of points off Charisma and Agility, but you know, you give and take a bit.

Then he showed me a list of things called "traits", which are like bonuses to how I can react to things. How they work I have no idea, but I chose a couple of them, Wild Wasteland included, and something to do with "tagging" skills and perks. Such a bother. I wonder if the Dragonborn had to go through this. Doc Mitchell was a patient man, luckily; the process took us ages to finish, and I was glad to get it done.

It's been a week since then. I've learned how to use my Pip-Boy, which is some machine attached to my wrist that tells me what I've got carried and my status; I've learned how to use guns, which are like bows except explosive, and much, much more potent - perfect for killing dragons, actually, anything, in fact - and I've gotten to know the town a little better. They're mostly a kind bunch, and seem sympathetic to me. They gave me the simple task of ferrying clean water from the valve some ways from the village, and in return I get bottle caps, which are like septims, with I buy provisions with. Doc Mitchell's been housing me graciously, but I can't stay here much longer. It's time to go. Tomorrow morning, I'm setting out. I've got as much water as I can carry, and food, and a gun and ammunition. The closest thing I could find to a sword was a razor. Puny, and I don't think I'll be using it much, but the touch of steel gives me comfort.

I can't help but think back to Skyrim and the war, and compare it to here. The weaponry here is so advanced. You could kill beasts in the flash of an eye without so much as moving. There's a VATS system-machine-thing that helps me aim my gun so that I don't have to do it myself, since I'm a terrible shot. A warrior using swords has no place here. Even Vilkas wouldn't stand a chance against a child armed with a pistol. If guns are so commonplace, trying to use melee weapons would be just stupid. I mean, sure, you could hope that they miss, and maybe have your armour endure a little of the shock, but you're bound to get hit as you charge, and one bullet to the head is all it takes.

Fighting on Earth is such an amazing thing, and it frightens me as a warrior. Because weapons as powerful as these, and with everyone having at least one... Skill and experience don't matter any more. All you need to do is lift your arm and squeeze the trigger. You could say that there's no safety, only equality. Maybe not even that if you haven't used a gun in your life, such as myself, though I am getting better by practicing with empty bottles and cans.

The thing is, even after something as devastating as the nuclear war, people are still fighting. Nobody's bothering Goodsprings, but there's supposedly a struggle brewing between the main government and some slaver legion to the east. The government is spread too thinly to keep the peace, but the slaver legion is just downright wrong, treating its captives with unimaginable cruelty. Sound familiar?

I fear that it'll be the same in Skyrim, that even if we do end the rebellion, or drive out the Imperials, people will still fight. Because war... war never changes. Or so it would seem.

Perhaps... it will be different back home. We don't have guns, but we have the Nordic spirit, and the hearts of the people of Skyrim who still hope for a peaceful future. I guess I reckon that we have a good deal more common sense. That maybe our skulls won't be as thick as theirs, that we'll have learnt our lesson about going to war. That, and I want to believe that the Dragonborn will save us all. Because Earth doesn't have someone like that to stop the war, but Skyrim does. He'll pull through. Somehow, I just know it.

That is, of course, after I've kicked his idiot ass for stranding me here. I'm not good with fortune telling, but I think I can foresee a future involving putting copious amounts of sand into his food, just to make a point.


	24. Chapter 19

Dear Diary,

I almost died today.

I'm trembling as I write this. I'm tired as hell and my head is spinning a lot worse, but I can't go to sleep, not until I reach the next town, at least. I'm so sleepy... writing as I rest my screaming legs is the only thing that's keeping me awake at this point. All I can smell is blood, since I can't afford to use my water to wash off the stains. I'm half tempted to strip off my jumpsuit, but... no. Just, no.

I left in the morning just as planned, after saying goodbye to everyone and getting directions. The route was simple. I just needed to head up north-east along the main road, and follow the map on my Pip-Boy. From Goodsprings, I would make pit-stops at wherever it seemed likely that there would be supplies: the towns of Sloan, then Black Mountain, REPCONN HQ, and then make the long stretch to Camp McCarren before finally reaching The Strip, where New Vegas is. Even though cutting through the mountain ranges would shorten my journey considerably, I was advised against it, since there was a high risk of running into monsters, monsters which would make snarling wolves look like dolls in comparison. Hence all the twisting and turning as I followed the roads.

I stopped only to eat and drink. The road was quiet, so I had made good progress when night fell, about halfway there. There was not much shelter about, so I had to resort to curling up under the shadow of a nearby sand dune for the night.

Some time after I had drifted to sleep, I stirred to the sound of men talking. As I came to, I realized that I was lying down face-first, and my hands were tied behind my back. I gave a yelp of surprise, and that got the attention of the pair. They laughed, and one of them squatted down next to me. He was carrying a lantern that revealed his face - ugly, scarred, with the most horrible look to ever inhabit human eyes.

"So you're awake? All the more fun," he grinned. He shoved the lantern closer to my face. "Hey, you don't look half bad after all. Not that it would have mattered. I'd even do Chappie's mum at this point. What are you, foreign? I'm going to enjoy you so hard, damn it!"

"What is the meaning of this?" I shouted, trying to break free. "Let me go!"

"Oh, a fiesty one," said the second man. "Me gusta."

"Shut up, I'm having her first," snarled the first. He reached out and grabbed my chin. His hands were oily and clammy. I'm getting shudders just thinking about it. "All right, so you hold her still."

I tried to protest, but the man was too strong for me. He yanked me to my feet and locked me in a vicegrip from behind. I was kicking and screaming as hard as I could. I managed to land a couple of kicks to him, but all he did was swear and grip me harder. The first man had put down the lantern, and I heard the clink of metal and some sort of zipping noise... and that was when the gunshot fired.

I watched, dumbstruck, as the man, no more than a black figure now, crumpled to the floor. The second man swore again and let me go, dropping me to the floor hard. I landed on my cheek, fortunately, and the sand was soft. There was another gunshot, a searing heat across my wrists, and the ropes binding my hands were snapped.

Then, the strangest voice spoke to me, a woman's, whispering in my ear: "Go. Exact justice."

I saw, suddenly, my rifle a couple of metres to my right, where my belongings were. I ran to it, aimed at the fleeing man in the pitch black of the night, and fired.

That shot was the loudest I had ever fired. There was nobody else in the night, no other creature, no cicadas chirping or wolves howling. There was just the bang of my rifle, and a distant yelp indicating that I had hit my mark.

The dust settled, and I held my position, my shoulders locked and my eye frozen to the iron sight that saw nothing.

Again, the voice hissed, "Go. Exact justice." And that was what I did.

I took the lantern and made my way slowly to where the second man lay. The casting light showed him to be no better than the first, with small scars lining his chin and beady, pudgy eyes. Something... disappeared inside of me. It hasn't quite come back to me, and I'm still feeling it. That coldness, that... antipathy. The lack of feeling, only disgust, as I looked at him. A moment's inspection revealed to me that I had hit his thigh, and blood was pooling around his pants. He was gasping and tears were in his eyes, shaking violently in the sand.

I see now that I had been careless not just with choosing such an open rest stop, but in being too slow.

He drew his pistol on me. I barely had time to react when the shot rang out.

Can you picture it? Me, slightly bent, with my lantern in one hand and rifle in the other, wide open. The lowlife, lying on the ground, two arm-lengths away, with his pistol outstretched and smoking.

He had missed the shot at point-blank range. All he had hit was a stray hair, the singe it left on my neck barely noticeable. I watched as his finger curled up against the trigger and pulled again, and again, and again. I don't know why I waited, or why I was so slow to react. Such idiocy would have gotten me killed any other time. Yet there I was, waiting, almost savouring it. His fear, his desperation, his helplessness. The air was full of noise, now: my heart, beating in my ears; his screams and sobs, rising pathetically like a maggot from a piece of meat; the click of the trigger, of hammer on barrel, the spirit-crushing sound of a gun emptied of bullets.

He yelled again. I put down the lantern, gripped my rifle, and...

I'm not proud of what I did. But I am sure as hell not ashamed. I... just don't know whether I should be.

I killed him. I beat him with the butt of the rifle until my arms grew sore and I could take no more, until I ran out of breath and tripped over my own foot. My hand grazed the blunt end by accident, and I felt something slimy; I can only guess that I must have bashed his face into a pulp.

Somehow, I managed to stagger back to my resting spot. I started a fire and cooked the end of my rifle until the blood was a charred black, and the flesh was burnt off completely. Somehow I burnt my hand, and somehow I pushed myself to check the body of the first man for loot - a handful of bottle caps, his gun and ammunition, and a couple of long red sticks - dynamite. I had never used them before, but I was certain that they were worth something to someone, and every bit of money counted. I could not bear to look at the body of the second man, let alone approach him and dig his pockets for spare change.

All of these thoughts were running through my head as I tried to gather myself, just before I broke down into tears. Cold, calculated, bottle-cap thoughts.

Is this truly what it feels like to have no qualms about killing? I know that I've killed countless bandits in the past, but this was different. This... I truly feel nothing over the loss of those two men. I don't know whether that's right or wrong.

The voice that saved me egged me on, and it may have been the very voice that damned me into this predicament.

I mean, they were going to rape me, that much was obvious, and I acted out of self-defence, but was I really exacting justice?

I want to believe that I was. But something's telling me that I was exacting revenge instead.

And that something is also telling me it's okay.

Is it?

I don't know. I... I don't know.

I've ran all this way, and I can make out the next town already. Another sprint and I'll have reached Sloan. I'm going to go in, take over the first house I see, lock myself in and sleep for eternity.


	25. Chapter 20

Dear Diary,

I now have a pet, and its name is Morgodore. As of what it is, I have no idea, but the word "demonspawn" seems to fit.

As promised, I locked myself in the first bunker I stumbled upon. I barged past the door and had it bolted and barricaded, and plopped on to the mattress without a second thought. When I woke up, it was midday, with the sun streaming through the cracks in the ceiling and me sweating all over.

The bunker was sparsely furnished in typical wasteland style: wooden flooring, poor ventilation and lighting, a toilet to the side, a small kitchen, and the rest of the house was one big bedroom, with a few boxes in a corner and a wardrobe in the other. The kitchen was neat but dusty, and sadly empty; so was the wardrobe. Even so, the Pip-Boy said that the water in the toilet was poison-free, an amazing stroke of luck - so I had a good wash, stocked up, and rinsed my garments.

As I waited for them to dry, I realized then that I was starving. I opened a can of Pork 'n Beans, and was just about to eat when there was a rustling, and this... thing wriggled out of the boxes.

I don't quite know how to describe it. By the looks of it, it's an infant, no taller than knee height. It's got a tail and tough, sand-coloured hide. It has sharp teeth and long claws. It walks on two legs, and has horns, and a row of spikes along its back. Its nose is snout-like, similar to an orc's, and its eyes are sunken and beady. And geez is it ugly!

Its interest was in the food rather than chasing me out of its territory. I would know, because I dropped my can in surprise, and it rushed to the fallen food instead of leaping at my face. It moves really fast, for such a small thing.

I'm not sure why I didn't swat it away it there and then. I watched, horrified and fascinated, curled on my bed against the wall, as it scrabbled to clean the inside of the can. I had never seen anything like it, but sharp claws are generally sings of danger, and yet... Maybe it was because I was half-naked, or because my gun was on the far corner of the room. Or maybe because it was so desperate-looking, that appealed to the flowering garden of spring that is my maiden heart (ugh). Eh, probably not that, considering just how ugly it is. Like, seriously, it looks nigh unkillable, with those long talons and muscled body (and it's the things which look unkillable that you feel the urge to kill the most, as ironic as that is. Case in point? Dragons). I'd sketch it, except that I am a horrible artist and I need to save ink.

It took my accident as a gesture of goodwill, it seems, because for the rest of the day, it followed me around, making raspy noises. I couldn't very well bat it away; the longer I walked with it, the more I realized how helpless the little guy was compared to the giant scorpions or geckos. Leaving it on its own would be just cruel. Well, that, and I didn't to make it angry by hitting it, because even though it was short, I had no doubts that it could reach my head with a single leap. And you grow attached to that sort of dependence, y'know?

Sloan's a dead town. There's nobody around. I know; I checked. No footprints in the dust, nobody responding when you cautiously shout "Hello?", no noise except your own steps, and the beast crawling in and out of nooks and crannies... I guess it's a good thing, since it means that I wasn't trespassing, and it meant that I didn't steal. There were not that many buildings, and most of them were locked. I did find a mess hall, and there were a few cans of food in the mess hall, "were" being the emphasis. It's a waste to just let it sit there, and I needed to bolster my supplies. Especially now that I have Morgodore. Hopefully he can hunt for himself, seeing as he somehow managed to make his way to infanthood on his own.

Finding clean water here was great, but I was hoping that there would be vendors around to buy food from. Looks like I may have to resort to hunting, although the prospect of cooking toxic meat is hardly something to look forward to. At least I have the stimpaks the Doc gave me, in case something goes awry. They're wondrous things, stimpaks, just like potions, except injected with a needle. Why this is so is beyond me. I haven't had a lot of exposure to them, but I've decided that I don't like needles very much. I'm tempted to try and break it open and drain the fluid out so that I can drink it instead... shouldn't do that though. They're too valuable to waste like that.

Anyhow, I'll stay another night, and then move on to Black Mountain. Road looks short; I should be able to make it by sundown if I leave early enough.

Love,

Lydia


	26. Chapter 21

Dear Diary,

Given that I spent a good year or so parading across Skyrim with an orc, I shouldn't have been so taken aback at the sight of the super mutants. But I was.

The super mutants, for one, are huge, easily my height and a half, and people that aren't at least wary of creatures that large usually don't live very long. Their skin is coloured, some pale blue, most are green, with a bulbous nose and large, deep set eyes. They are muscular and bulky, and mostly dressed in leather armour. Their teeth are large, squared, set and bared very often, but otherwise they're rather similar to orcs.

Ah, yes, and the biggest thing about them is that they are mostly mental to some degree, and can turn invisible on a whim. I have no idea why this is so, but it really, really unnerves me. What it's like to sit here as I write this, with guards patrolling outside and mumbling their inane mutterings as they pass by, and you know that when you open the door, you won't be able to see anything... it's not something you can quite imagine. Well, maybe you can, since empty hallways are easy enough, but, ah... you get the point.

When I reached the foot of Black Mountain, I met Neil. He was sitting outside a run-down shack, which was no more than a few sheets of rusted metal held up by some sticks to form a shade. He greeted me as I walked up. I'll admit, I was rather stunned - again, large, tall creature, skin green like an orc's, body bulging with muscles, and shirtless. Actually, now that I think of it, he reminds me a bit of the Dragonborn. Huh.

Anyhow, he greeted me, and asked, "Where are you headed, traveller?"

"Why do you want to know?" I asked warily.

"Because if you're headed up the mountain, I have some important advice for you," he replied.

"Ah," I said, "then yes, that's where I'm headed."

"Good. Don't be," he said.

I asked him to make sense.

"Black Mountain has been taken over by a super mutant called Tabitha," he explained. "And Tabitha, in a word, is insane. She's ordered her guards to shoot any human on sight. My job is to warn people about it."

I looked up the mountain path. He noticed and shook his head.

"Miss, you seem really, really new to the wasteland. Let me ask you: do you know what a super mutant is?"

"No," I replied truthfully.

He rolled his eyes. "Then you'd better head back. You obviously don't know what you're getting yourself into. See, super mutants are like myself, except the ones up there are mad. You can't reason with them. You can't fight them up close, because a swing of their clubs is all they need to grind you to dust. You can't fight them with guns, because you can't see them, because the guarding nightkin, they've got Stealth Boys on all the time. Surely you know about Stealth Boys, right? No?"

He sighed when he saw my expression. It's something I'm rather proud of, actually. I've managed to hone a look to display whenever someone tells me about something that I probably should know about but don't. I even practiced it for a bit in Sloan. You pull your lips a bit horizontally, and you widen your eyes without raising your eyebrows, and then you frown and bite your lip.

"Stealth Boys make the user invisible. You can see how that would be a problem."

"Ah," I said. At least invisibility was not a new concept to me. "But I need a place to stay for the night."

"You're going up Black Mountain to look for somewhere to sleep?" asked Neil, in a tone that suggested that I was crazy.

"Yeah," I said.

"Why don't you just sleep under the open sky, like every other wanderer does?"

"It's not safe," I said.

"And you think going up Black Mountain is safe? You're crazy," he snorted. "Can't you feel it? Black Mountain is one of the most irradiated places in the Mojave Wasteland. Such a frail body as your own would have picked up on it by now. Unless..." He peered at me. "No, there doesn't seem to be anything special about you. You should have felt it."

"Wait, wait, hold on. Black Mountain is irradiated?" I asked, not having felt anything.

"Miss, you need to do your research," he said with a dry laugh. "Radiation's not too bad at the foot of the mountain, but it only gets worse as you go up. A nuclear warhead hit gobsmack in the middle of the crater you see before you, you see. If you kept up a steady eating of Rad-X, maybe you'd make it, but otherwise, you'd end up a crawling heap of tumours if you spent more than a day up there."

I can't begin to describe my apprehension then. So not only was Black Mountain not a town, it was uninhabitable. A couple more hours, and the sun would have set; I needed to find shelter quickly. Perhaps, if I did an all-nighter, I would reach REPCONN HQ, but the name was even more ambiguous than Black Mountain. If I reached there only to find out that there was no lodging, well, I'd be in a tight spot.

It was while I fumed silently that Neil saw Morgodore for the first time.

"Miss," he said slowly, "is that baby deathclaw yours?"

"Baby deathclaw?" He pointed to Morgodore. "Is that what it is? Yeah, I guess." I lifted him up in my arms and hastily put him back down when he struggled. "I found him two days ago, and he seems to like me."

"It's... yours?" A strange look was on his face, like he couldn't believe his eyes. "Does it have... a name?"

I couldn't see where this was going at the time, but it wasn't as if being nasty to Neil would get me a bed any quicker. "Yeah. It's called Morgodore."

He began to fidget on his feet until he finally caved in. "More like Morgodor-able, am I right?" he grinned, revealing fully his two rows of yellowed teeth, and picked him up like a child would pick up a kitten. Morgodore hissed and struggled, but its talons fell short of those bunched arms of his, and Neil swung it around a couple of times, making cooing noises. "It's so cute! Look at it!"

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. Perhaps closing my slacked jaw might have been a good start.

"And it's yours, you say?" he asked.

"Yep. He's mine," I said, fairly sure that that was the right answer.

Neil put him down and went into his shack. "Well, that changes things. I can't bear to think of the little guy out in the cold on his own. I've been meaning to use this myself, but it doesn't fit me, as you can see." He re-appeared, holding this bright red jumper, with some sort of clear dome attached to it like a helmet. "I found this at REPCONN a few weeks ago. It's a space suit, and very good for resisting radiation." He handed it to me. "I'll let you borrow it. It'll keep out quite a bit of the stuff, though not all of it, so make sure to keep an eye on your health parameters. Your Pip-Boy does that for you."

I gave him the look again, and he took my arm and pressed a couple of buttons. He pointed out on the display numbers and words, and explained to me how this heavy bracelet knew more about my body's condition than I did. I was enlightened that very moment. The power of these Earth machines is truly formidable.

"But," I had to ask before leaving, "why didn't you offer it to me in the beginning?"

"Because honestly? I don't trust humans that much," he shrugged, "but to keep such a beautiful creature as a pet... you're probably all right." He sat back down and titled his head at me meaningfully. "Don't prove me wrong. I still want the suit back, mind."

Sure, the experience was queer, but I like to think of it as a preparation for what happened next. Compared to Tabitha and the inhabitants of Black Mountain, Neil is as solidly reasonable as a totem.

Turns out that the VATS aiming thing is capable of detecting enemies that I can't. I mean, yes, I did try the diplomatic approach, greeting them with a raised arm, but they starting shooting at me and then I had to scramble. I didn't shoot to kill, I will have you know; just their arms so that they couldn't fire, and their legs so that they couldn't chase after me. The VATS made it really easy to pick out the weak bits, I reckon, because every hit that I landed maimed its target. They fell, screaming and grunting, but definitely still alive. Which they should be plenty grateful for, if you ask me.

When we got to the summit, there was a monster in the distance, watching us. It looked like a grown-up version of Morgodore. A lot more grown-up. I'm glad watching us was all it did, as I got the feeling that my bullets wouldn't be able to penetrate that thick hide of its.

So there I was, dressed in some bright red suit and a fishbowl that fogged up as I breathed, having eaten a couple of Rad-X, in front of the door, when it burst open from the inside, and the most horrendous creature came out. It had a shock of blond curls on its head - that's what it looked like, a shock of curls on its head - some sort of heart-shaped frames on its nose. I didn't notice the rest of it, because I was too busy being aghast as it stared into my eyes.

"Who are you?" it asked, in a voice not quite a woman's, but not so much a man's.

"Uh," I replied. Not the smartest thing to say, I'll admit.

"Who are you? The supreme overlord demands an answer!" it shouted.

So this was the feared Tabitha. Well, Neil was right when he said that she was crazy, I'll give him that.

"I'm, er, a friend," I replied.

"You are? Are you? Which friend?"

I blurted the first name that came to my mind. "Lily. Yep, I'm Lily. Lily... Bowen."

Tabitha stared at me with furious eyes. "You're a lot shorter than I remember you."

I breathed a little faster in the hopes that the fog would hide my face. "I haven't been eating well," I replied.

"I see, I see. I see! Yes, yes, you are my friend! Welcome!" bellowed Tabitha, expression changing into glee as swift as a diving hawk. "Yes, Tabitha will welcome you and you will have tea! And we will talk about the Master and remember his gloriousness!"

Bluffing my way with someone evidently several slices short of a leg-of-lamb? Sure, why not?

Needless to say, me writing this is proof that I did a good job of it. I feigned amnesia, spinning a yarn about how, after leaving the Master, whoever he is, I wandered the wilderness until I lost my memory, and the only thing I remembered was that I was Tabitha's friend. The suit, I explained, was magic which kept me alive. The moment I took off the helmet, I would die. And she actually sympathized, saying how she would feel the same way if she took off her wig. During tea time, I took up the teacup, raised it to my helmet and spilled it all over myself, and told her that was how I drank things normally. She swallowed everything without a doubt. I even convinced her to let me take my fill from the pantry as a private offering to the Flowerpot God that gave me the suit. And no, there is no Flowerpot God, though I'm a little inclined to say a word of thanks just in case.

Tabitha believes, for some reason, that her glasses give her the special ability to see enemies the other super mutants cannot see. She also really, really likes her machine servant, Rhonda, in a creepy, insane sort of way. It didn't say much. All it did was scoot around and refill our drinks. Probably should try and describe it, even though I'm horrible at it: think a dwemer machine, except that it floats, has three yellow eyes, a round head, a slim body and legs like a praying mantis'. And one of those legs has a razor attached to it. Get the picture? No? Ah, well, at least I tried. Not that I need to remember what it looks like, anyway, since after today both it and Tabitha will be far behind me.

And that's a good thing, because Tabitha is, in short, evidently insane. At least she's on my side. It really does make you re-consider what the definition of "safe" is.

Now that I've been here for a while, I get what Neil was saying about the radiation. I'm feeling slightly nauseous, though that could be because I've been wearing this claustrophobic helmet all day. The room I was given is surprisingly clean, although there's something coldly unpleasant about it. The walls are all metal, there's a mattress, a table and a chair, and a basin with dirty water. It's lit by some miniature sun in the ceiling that goes on and off at the flick of a switch. I faintly remember there being something like it in Doc Mitchell's house, but I never used it before.

Anyhow, it's twilight now. Didn't sleep much, feeling too sick to, at least got a few hours. Someone's knocking at the door. Might as well go see what they want.

Love,

Lydia


	27. Chapter 22

Deary Diary,

Crap. Crap, crap, crap dang it all.

So I broke Rhonda. It had it coming, and it was in self-defence, but you try and tell Tabitha that. No? Thought so.

When I opened the door that night, I was greeted by Rhonda. It waved an arm to me and said, "Come with me, please."

"What's this about?" I asked.

"There is a matter of importance to discuss," it said, and with that, floated on. As tired as I was, I had to follow it. After all, a guest that doesn't heed the beckon of their host doesn't stay a guest for very long. Basic courtesy and all that. We walked down silent hallway after hallway until we reached the room with the tea table.

"Please sit down, miss Lydia," it said.

I did so. I leapt back up moments later when I realized.

"You know my name?" I asked, still keeping fairly calm.

"I do," it replied. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am, for our purposes today, Obsidian." It lifted the arm with the razor and it made a whizz in the air. "I would advise you to sit down, miss Lydia."

"Hold on. You're Obsidian? That thing like Bethesda is?" I asked.

"Yes," it replied, "and no. Bethesda is our superior, but effectively, we are the administrators of this realm. Bethesda has very little influence here."

"Right." I rubbed my face and sat back down. My mind kicked into gear once more. If I was quick enough, I could flip the table on it and catch it off guard, long enough to do something. There were no other viable things to use as weapons in the room; I had, once again, foolishly left my firearms in my room. Of course, it wasn't good to jump to conclusions. Maybe it wanted to rebel against Bethesda, too. Or maybe it was just curious about me. Either way, until it proved itself hostile, I could only wait and see, and I might as well make myself comfortable while I'm at it. Funnily enough, I don't think I intended to pay it any attention at the time. Kinda rude, even if the speaker is some omnipotent deity you don't care for (re-reading that, it doesn't sound right, but, eh). Not that what it said made much sense, but I'm glad I ended up listening away.

"Tell me a bit about yourself, then," I said to it. "And then tell me why I shouldn't walk out of this door right now and go to sleep."

"Very well. I will comply." Rhonda lowered all of its arms, save one, which it waved about as it talked. "I assume you roughly know the position of Bethesda in your world? Never mind. That is not vital. All you need to understand is that what Bethesda is to your world, I am, in a way, to mine. There is a key difference, which I suppose you must come to realize: Bethesda is one, but we are many. By many, I refer to us being a conglomerate. We are many agents, with our own wills, working under the umbrella entity of Obsidian. We carry out its will, but that does not stop us from providing input or, perhaps, even opposing it - whereas Bethesda's agents have no free will whatsoever."

I nodded. There wasn't much else I could do.

"My opinion is mine alone. As wayward as my actions may be, I would hate for my esteemed colleagues to be placed under the same blanket blame. So, thus, please understand that what will follow next is not the consensus of Obsidian as a whole, and most likely is not, though I am sure that I have fellows in the matter." Its claws clicked together sharply. "And that matter... is you."

"What do you need?" I asked warily. I gave the balls of my feet a little roll. Most of the words were sailing over the top of my sleepy head. It's actually a wonder that I can recall all of this.

"You are..." - it paused and turned away momentarily - "strange. You can exist here because we are under Bethesda's common reality matrix. The realm of Earth does not reject you. But you do not belong here. And yet there are some who are of the opinion that you should." It turned its eye on me. "Do you weave?"

"Eh? Weave? Uh, not really," I started, but it cut me off.

"Imagine," it said, "a weave. The weave is made of many uniform threads intertwined. Now imagine introducing a piece of rope into the weave." It made a broad gesture. "The weave does not collapse, because rope shares the same characteristics as the thread. But it disrupts the weave around it. It does not belong. You do not belong."

"Trust me, you and I are on a closer frequency than you think," I muttered. "I'm trying to get out of here as fast as I can."

"Are you now?" It sounded surprised. "Then that should make things so much more simpler." It bobbed in the air, like it was trying to nod. "Please, then, proceed to kill yourself."

I stared into its glowy bulb until my pupils started to burn from the light.

"I'm sorry, what?" I said at last.

"By killing yourself, you remove yourself from the world," it said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world (which it kinda is). "Is it not easier for the rope to remove itself rather than the weaver trying to pick it out?"

"And what if I don't want to die?" I said.

"Then we have a conflict of interest," it said, and lifted its arms. Famous last words, as I leapt from my seat and flipped the table over. It caught Rhonda face on, and I immediately pounced on the arm with the razor. It was surprisingly feeble; before I knew it, I had pushed the razor into its body, making the most horrendous screech of metal-on-metal I ever heard.

The ruckus was sure to draw attention. How could it not? The sound was ear-splitting, and it was the dead of night. I wasted no time and bolting out and getting my things. Thankfully, Morgodore had the sense to follow, too. By amazing chance, the guards hadn't returned yet - my guess was that Rhonda dismissed them in order to take me out of my room with no witnesses. This played into my favour greatly; I cleared my room in record time and was outside the station in a whiz. There were guards outside, but I screamed "Hail Tabitha!" at them before they could react, and this seemed to tide them over.

I'm now... somewhere, north-east of Black Mountain's location marker. I can't really blame myself for not looking at the map before breaking into a run, but this is going to be bothersome... I ran into a couple of giant flying wasps, with wingspans as large as six arm-lengths, and it was all I could do to keep them down. It's definitely not safe to sleep in the wilderness in these parts. Darn it all.

Ah, well. It's not like I'm not used to twilight trekking.

Now that I think of it, Rhonda did say that there were some of Obsidian that thought I belonged. I wonder what that means? Eh, not that it matters, because I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to.

Time to head on, then.

Love,

Lydia


	28. Chapter 23

Dear Diary,

Looks like it's the end of sand in my leggings and poking for water from rusty faucets - I'm getting a lift to New Vegas!

I managed to find an abandoned shack halfway on my trip to REPCONN HQ. Which, I might add, stands for something I do not yet know. REPCONN. Huh. Probably a good reason as to why it's all in big letters. Not that I'd ever know, since I don't need to, since, refer to first line, but, well.

After barricading myself in with an assortment of chairs and wadrobes, I went to sleep. I had a dream. I was in Goodsprings, sitting on the hill where Doc Mitchell's house was, shooting at hordes of Rhondas charging at me. Then the Doc came over and started injecting me with stimpaks and I hit him with the butt of my rifle, and then he took out his own pistol and started firing at the Rhondas...

It was still dark when I woke up, and the reason for me waking up was Morgodore hissing and spitting at something, and the door getting pounded on, as if somebody were hitting at it with a slab of meat. The blows were slow and heavy and squishy. Needless to say, I jumped out of bed, switched on the Pip-Boy light and grabbed my gun immediately, just in time as the wood splintered and the feeble barricade gave way to reveal a sick, disgusting monster. It was something with a head vaguely human, with tendrils crawling out of its mouth. Its body was also vaguely human, and supported by some abdomen that extended along its back like a tail, and its legs looked like arms... The faint illumination from the little bulb on my wrist was enough to reveal how grotesque it was. I was torn between puking and screaming as it barged in. Morgodore whimpered and tried to scrabble up my leg, leaving a few scratches in the process. I activated VATS mode and let the Pip-Boy direct my aim. Time seemed to slow down as the beast's movements went from a crawl to an inch. Yellow labels drew themselves across my vision, pointing to its various parts, but I was too shocked to pick and choose; in a flurry, I slotted all of my shots to the head. My finger squeezed around the trigger. I was about to pull it back when a jingle rang in my ears, and there was the sound of a revolver barrel clicking right next to my head.

The next moment, time rushed back into its pace, VATS had timed out, and the beast erupted into a smoking heap. I would have vomited for sure if it had blew up, but all I heard was a low rumble and an only slightly less sickening slosh, before the beast collapsed on to the floor with a squish.

I spun around quickly. Standing behind me was a woman, dressed in not very many clothes - a veil, some elaborate headpiece with feathers, an extremely revealing vest thing that left her shoulders bare, and a jutting piece of metal on her right shoulder, which seemed to serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever. She flinched as the light shone into her eyes, and she waved irritably at me.

"Cut it out," she said, in a wispy voice that made me think of those thinned out clouds after a day of rain.

As soon as my brain made the connection between voice and memory, I got to my feet. "It's you. You helped me before."

"So I have," she replied, "so I have. And I am here to help you again."

I never did thank her properly for back then, even if the memories of that time were unpleasant. I soon fixed that.

"Don't mention it. It's what I do," she replied, "and besides, I like you."

"Okay," I said. I added for good measure, "Wait, what?"

"I like you," she said again. She sat down on the bed and crossed her exposed legs, in a way that irked me more than it should have. "You may call me the Lady, although Miss Fortune is popular in these parts and goes just as well. Calling upon my real name would result in my disappearance, and trust me, you would stand to be worse off should that happen."

"But I don't know your real name," I frowned.

"Then it will be the best for both of us," she said, her tone suggesting that she was smiling. Not that I'd know for sure, because she was wearing a veil... I seem to be repeating myself more and more often. "But tell me about yourself."

Something inside of me clicked just then. It was probably the reason why I ended up saying so much to her: for the past few days, I had spoken and been spoken to amazingly little. I've written dutifully, but it's just so different from actually speaking out aloud. And this Miss Fortune was the first human to cross paths with after leaving Goodsprings, lowlife scum aside. Not to mention the fact that she was an ally overshadowed whatever mysterious circumstances surrounding her, as well as the fact that she somehow managed to get into the barricaded shack...

I told her nearly everything - who I was, and where I was from. What I did as a housecarl. My role as the Dragonborn's companion. Select excerpts from our adventures. The events leading to my arrival on Earth. All the while, she egged me on with nods and harmless questions, and the more I talked, the more I started to truly remember - not quite remember, rather, feel - that Skyrim was my home. Up until now, all I had been doing was trying to leave Earth. But recalling everything made me realize that I actually wanted to return to Skyrim.

I also realized that I hadn't seen the Dragonborn in ages. That, and I do kinda miss him.

Damn.

Maybe it's because running for my life has been a convenient preoccupation up until now, but I think I'm getting homesick.

I spilled quite a bit of that to her, too. At the end of my little speech, she folded her arms and let out a long "Hmm?"

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Well," she said slowly, "the thing is, I rather wanted you to stay. You see, like I said, I like you. You have amazingly good fortune, and you have a strong spirit and sense of justice. Me, you could call me a vigilante who helps out the underdog. It's fulfilling and all, but I want to put down the reins." She took her pistol and swung it on a finger. "The problem is that I have to find someone to pick them back up. And I was hoping it'd be you."

"I'm honoured," I replied, "but I don't belong here. Obsidian said so."

"Obsidian?" She shook her head and laughed, a crisp burst like a chilly draft on a summer's night. "You must be talking about the robot. That was hardly Obsidian. I am more part Obsidian than that hunk of metal will ever be."

"Wait, so you're -" I started, but she laid a finger on my lips with the same twinkle in her eyes.

"I am not Obsidian. It and I are partners of a sort," she said. "We work together, but we're independent of each other. I mean... I don't want to go too deep into the details. Tell me, do you understand what are the administrator deities?"

Is that what Bethesda and friends were called? "No," I answered, "not really," which was the honest truth, despite, I would suppose, all the effort of people in trying to educate me about them.

"Then you're not going to be able to understand what I am," she replied, laughing again. "But look, we're getting carried away. Don't you enjoy the wanderer's life at all? Not even a bit? Think about it." She got up and began pacing the floor, continuing in a sing-song voice. "You'd be living with immense power. You wouldn't need to worry about food or drink. You wouldn't need to worry about radiation. You get to travel the wasteland, rugged, vast, and beautiful in its own, wild way."

She turned to me and pushed her face up close to mine, to the point that I could feel her faint breathing on me. She smelled surprisingly good, for some desert dweller - the scent of something like flowers clung to her skin. Her eyes were narrowed, and that look in her eyes, almost as if she were seducing me... which was totally wrong and off-putting. Just so you don't get any ideas, you hear?

"You'd get to deliver justice," she whispered. I suddenly felt warm and fuzzy. For some reason, I missed my quilt terribly, the red-and-blue patched one in my room. Note: remember to beat the dust out of it when I got back. Her voice was so very calming, like hot tea during midnight. It made me want to hug her, as odd as that sounds. "You'd get to help the weak and make your world a better place. Isn't that your dream, Lydia?"

"But my world isn't here," I recall saying in my muddle-headedness, "it's Skryim."

"Ah." She stepped back, a strange, not unhappy look on her face (or what I could see of it). "So that's how it's going to be." She sighed and added, "I won't lie, I'm rather disappointed. But I still like you. Tell me, do you really hate this place that much?"

Did I? That snapped me awake. What, was there another option aside from "hell yes"? This place was swarming with monsters that made dragons look like pets, and perverts and weirdos and death at every corner! There was the poison in everything, and the severe lack of necessities, and it was blisteringly hot all day...

"Yes," she said, waving me off, "but don't you enjoy the freedom? The choice to be whoever you want to be, good or bad? That there are no options barred against you, unlike in Skyrim, where everything is weighted down by consequences?"

"First off," I replied, "I have never wanted to be bad. That's not going to change wherever I am. Secondly, consequences are important. That's why they matter. Someone who can't take the consequences of their actions is weak, and I don't think I'm that sort of person. Not that I'm implying you are," I added quickly. "Because I'm sure you're not."

"I have never had to deal with consequences," she said with a shrug. "Luck has always been on my side. As it has been on yours. Forgive me, but I find those words to be rather big, coming from the mouth of one such as yourself. Why don't you prove it?"

"The way things are, I'm guessing I don't have a choice," I replied, getting up.

"Oh? But you do," she replied. "It's just that you stand to gain greatly. If you win, I will send you to New Vegas within the span of an hour. You won't need to make your way through Freeside, and deal with the Securitrons and the passport nor the credit checks." She looked at my face. I gave her the Look. "Let me guess, you didn't know about those?"

I didn't. She explained to me what those were. To enter New Vegas, she said, I had to have a passport, which is basically an identification document - which I didn't have - or five thousand bottle caps - which I definitely didn't have.

"So it would seem you have no choice but to accept after all, if you wish to get to New Vegas," she crowed.

"Just tell me what happens if I lose," I muttered.

"If you lose, I get to retire and you take my place immediately," she said.

"Do I have to wear that?" I asked, pointing in her general direction, making a face that adequately expressed what I thought of it.

"What's wrong with it?" she asked. She even shifted her feet a little to sway her hips.

"It's indecent," I replied.

"Oh, you. So old-fashioned. Very cute," she replied.

She took out a silver coin and pressed it into my palm. I examined it. One side had "50" inscribed on it. The other side was blank.

"This is a fair coin," she replied, taking it back. "Surely even you must know how this goes. Heads is the side with the number; tails is not. So, heads or tails?"

I don't really know what gripped me to actually agree to it, but before I knew it, I had blurted out, "Heads."

"You're rather confident, aren't you?" replied Miss Fortune, cocking her head to one side.

"I have ten Luck," I replied, for no good reason.

"But I am the embodiment of fortune itself," she said, and flipped the coin. It landed on her palm and she cupped it over her other hand. "You are foolish to try your chances against me."

She lifted her hand to reveal the blank face of the coin.

"Uh. Best two out of three?" I asked.

She stared at me and broke into chortling laughter. Her sides shook as she stumbled, giggling, nodding. After an uncomfortable five counts, she got up, saying, "Very well. Very well, dear Lydia. Two out of three. Will that be final? Not that it'll matter, but..."

"Go on and flip the coin," I said, clenching my fists.

She did. It was heads. She looked up at me, with those grinning eyes.

"Lucky lucky," she replied, and flipped again.

Heads.

Rather than going into a furious rampage as I half-expected her to, she actually took it pretty well. She looked at the coin and blinked several times, looked at me, and looked back at the coin. She shook her head, put away the coin, and nodded. That was all.

"You've won," she simply said.

"I won," I said. "So..."

"I will take you to New Vegas." She did not sound disappointed or angry; in fact, she almost sounded satisfied, which worried me a little.

I had to say something. I stretched out a hand. "No hard feelings, right?"

She took it and gave it a shake, adding a wink to go along with it. "Not at all. I was... cocky. You were lucky. And I will take the consequences of my actions. If anything, our little bet has made me like you even more."

And then I wrote this entry. Now that I'm finished, I'm going to go off with her. Here's to hoping that this'll be the last chapter written on Earth, eh?

Love,

Lydia


	29. Interlude 6: Thesis in Limbo

_What is justice?_

_When I was young, I used to think that justice was punishing evil. It was simple. If you did something wrong, you were punished. It was that simple. You could lie to your guardian, perhaps, but if you were found out you had to pay double the price. It was very black and white._

_When I grew older, I understood what desperation was. I understood what poverty was, and how it could drive somebody to steal. If you did something wrong, perhaps there was a good reason; if your judge was compassionate, perhaps you could get away with it. It felt right to waive or at least lessen punishment for the repentant and those whose hand had been forced; it felt right, too, to harshly punish the wicked and the haughty. Without realizing it, my justice had started to bend and waver. It was no longer black and white. It never was, actually, but my own perceptions, my own bias, did not help blur and smudge the gray band in between._

_Later on, I received the position of housecarl. I understood what discipline was, how it showed no mercy to officer nor grunt alike. The law was rigid, unfeeling, and straight. It had to be; everyone was to be measured against it. There was a small leeway, but it was hardly a relief; if a man could not meet the consequences of his actions, his debt was transferred to his kin. No man is above the law. It ruled all under it with its weight, its circumstance - if the fear of punishment did not restrain you, then the punishment itself would._

_As time passed, I understood what corruption was, how the Thalmor, for all the grandeur and pomp of their legal system, could bend and wriggle their way out of paying the price. The rich and powerful got away with crimes; the poor and weak without the capital to bribe were hanged. This was a perversion of justice. _

_Somehow, at some point in time, I had decided that to counter this perversion, another perversion, a bias toward the weak and the poor, was a good idea. My justice was no longer a matter of solely punishment, but of equality - I wanted to help the helpless, or rather, those who could not help themselves. Perhaps it was at that point where my justice ceased to be justice; or perhaps it was earlier than that._

_As the war brewed on, I understood what need was, how exacting a man to an unfeeling standard without consideration for his state was unreasonable. Nicking potions for not having enough money to buy medicine for a sick wife. Stealing grain to feed one's family of six. Mugging, soiling one's hands so that the bellies of their loved ones could be filled for just one more day. To some I paid heed. To others I closed an eye. I have always had compassion for beggars, but nothing but contempt for bandits - it is almost laughable how little of my original justice remained. How wavering I was in my thoughts. True, I could not understand the circumstances behind every crime. True, not every crime is excusable - no, rather, it should be said that no crime is excusable. And yet I thought there was. The beggar was not harming anybody, but what about the orphan who stole an apple? Then what of the young man who stole goods to sell for his mother? Or the husband turned thief for his wife? We take it for granted so readily the choices we have, the options we have, to be able to choose to obey the law. Did these people have a choice? Perhaps they did. Perhaps they did not._

_When I met the Dragonborn, I realized just how far gone I was._

_I never acknowledged it, of course, but I suppose, in the deepest reaches of my heart, I knew._

_I was a filthy hypocrite._

_The man whose stolen loot I carried, the man whom I watched and even assisted to murder and plunder and pillage, I defended, because he was the chosen one._

_Does justice reward, or does it simply punish?_

_Does the measure of good of one's actions truly cancel out the guilt of one's crimes?_

_Is it not horrendously ridiculous for someone who calls herself a defender of justice to turn a blind eye to atrocities simply because the one committing them is her friend?_

_And yet... if all that justice do is punish, then perhaps... perhaps I do not want it after all._

_When I was caught for stealing coins from the pockets of pilgrims at the age of fifteen, I understood mercy. The captain of the guard, Mareiah, had mercy on me. Forgave me, paid my debt, took me under his wing and into his household. Trained me in the way of the sword. Perverted justice for my sake, because he saw it fit based on my circumstances._

_He died when a pack of wolves attacked him during one of his visits to the hermit living in the woods._

_We slayed them with our eyes burning with tears, and our hearts filled with rage, as ironic as it is, and yet it was the right thing to do. There was no alternative. It was our obligation, no, duty to avenge him. Not to exact justice, and definitely not to exact mercy, but to ravage them with the fire of vengeance._

_In a way, it really does depend on one's fortune, doesn't it? Whether or not one finds a judge with compassion. Whether or not one's circumstances are enough to bend the rules. Whether or not one receives mercy._

_Yes, fortune..._

_In the same way it was my fortune to meet the Dragonborn, and it was my fortune to enter this world, and to leave it, fortune governs life and transcends justice. Justice is nothing without its reinforcement. Fortune, however, affects that and more._

_Perhaps it might not be wrong to go as far as to say that fortune is justice._

_And I, I am - what am - wh_at are yo_u doing - stop - you there, what do yo_u think you're doing, **wait -**


	30. Interlude 7: Scene in the Dark

A broad-shouldered back, clad in blackened armour, bent at the haunches with the weight of travel. A horned helmet, its twin points catching an unseen light at an unimaginable angle, glowing with an unexpectedly bright pinprick of a shine. Stocky legs and well-shoed feet, trampling no downcast pool beneath them.

A mace on the left, a mace to the right. They swing side to side, the blurred perception of movement more apparent than the movement itself. They swing, up and down, madly, brazenly, tearing wisps of shadows, catching on to their rugged edges like cotton to a pitchfork. The tearing of shadows out of pitch black darkness, an incomprehensible thing to the senses, needing simple understanding to be seen, understanding that bypasses the eyes and ears and right into the heart. Amazingly simple, yet profound, the abandon of the proxy between one's mind and one's surroundings.

All of these fill her mind. But the only thing she notices is the shouting - that rough, worn voice, uttering no words, only syllables, roaring in depths of her private dimension, roaring for something or someone to stop.

She knows, because it happens; it happens, because she knows. And at last, the scene ends and fades, its instigator satisfied, leaving nothing but blissful blankness.

The dream goes on. She has been freed from it, and yet is solidly in it at the same time, and will be, until she awakens. And that time, be it a blessing or a curse, soon draws to a close itself.


	31. Chapter 24

Dear Diary,

It's three days too late, but I'm finally going back home. Yeah, I know, I've said that a few times, but Sheogorath is an absolute arse when it comes to these things.

Yes, you heard me right, Sheogorath. Look, how do I begin this...

Back in the shack, I stepped through the portal, a shimmering veil that looked like gauze woven from light. I remember blacking out, and then the next thing I knew, I was in a really comfortable bed. Like, with actual blankets and pillows! Egad, I missed those so much. I didn't have time to snuggle up, though; a quick turn to my side, and I saw Miss Fortune, sitting next to me with an odd look on her face.

"Oh," she said, "you're awake. Very well. This is where we part ways, then. You can't carry weapons in here, so your rifle and dynamite got confiscated. You'll get them when you leave, and you'll have to turn them back in when you re-enter. I left you a small revolver in the drawer for emergencies, though. Don't wear it in plain sight, you hear?"

"Wait, where are you going?" I asked, for she had gotten up and walked to the other side of the room.

"This isn't my kind of place," she replied mysteriously, and walked out of the room before I could say anything else. Fine by me; I got what I was promised, and I was happy enough with that.

After a bit of unnecessary sneaking around, I ran into a worker. He was kind enough to offer me a tour. I managed to pick up the information fairly quickly to piece my surroundings together. Apparently, I had been transported to The Tops, one of the biggest gambling centres in New Vegas, where, quote, "the coolest cats come to shizzle-a-dizzle". A check with a receptionist revealed that the room that I had woken up in had been paid for, with an ample week's tenancy left on the tab, meals included. Seems like Miss Fortune's a generous girl.

The Tops is a fun place. That is, that's what I'd like to say, except that I don't find the idea of gambling very fun at all. I mean, not that I lost, but seeing people around me losing bottle caps by the bucketful, and I can't help but think of the residents of Goodsprings, who couldn't amass one-tenth of the money lost in a second, just like that... It was a shock, simply put, just how bloody rich and frivolous the people here are.

There are quite a few gambling games here, most of which involve these little squares with pictures on them, and tables shaped like semicircles. Getting one with an "A" and a "K", "Q" or "J" is good, apparently. I got a lot of those, until a worker came over and kindly asked me to leave. Which was fine, since the whole process was just confusing. Nobody really explained anything to me, they just watched with glazed looks and slightly open mouths. Hmph. Antisocials. There are also these machines with a lever, where you pull and the little pictures line up and match each other. I can't really find anything amusing about those, save for the fact that there are colourful rotating pictures of fruit. Which actually is pretty amusing, if you think about it.

After meandering about in the lobby, I decided to go outside and look for, presumably, the Dragonborn. Long story short, I scoured the area with no sight of anyone I knew. I slept soundly during the night and ate very well during meal times, but the rest of the day was spent in a lifeless march around town. And the town is far from pleasant. There are hulking robots with angry faces on them, and prostitutes openly dancing on the streets, and men openly cheering them on with lecherous shouts. I don't think I've ever seen a place so blatantly vulgar before, and I was stuck in the heart of it. I don't think I've clenched my hands that often in one place, ever, for want of restraint. Thank Talos for common sense, a respect for injury laws and a good upbringing, or I would have pounded their eager beagles with the butt of my rifle ages ago.

Then, today, I woke up, and there was Sheogorath, squatting on the dressing table beside me.

The punch I gave him was extremely well-deserved. One of the best I've ever delivered, really, a smooth, no-barred cut from lying down to sitting up in less than a second, as good a form as you could ask for. Right on the nose, too.

When he finally got up, it was with, expectedly, a broken nose.

"Damn you," he said, dripping all over the carpet, "damn you to hell and beyond."

"I'm sorry," I said, getting out of bed and kinda meaning it. "It's just... well, you surprised me. You know, by barging into my room without warning."

"Oh, where have the days gone when maidens merely screamed and hid under the covers?" sighed Sheogorath, taking out a handkerchief and stuffing a nostril ingloriously with it. It was him all right - not a bit of him had changed, from the grayed hair to the fancy dress to the shiny shoes. "Anyhow, I'm the contact you're looking for. I'm here to take you back. I'm aware that I'm late, but chance didn't favour me as much as it favours you."

That was a surprise. "You? Not the Dragonborn?" Connections started to form fast in my mind. "Could it be that you're the one who put me here?" I said, the beginnings of a seething rising in my throat.

"Suddenly decide to perk up, have you? Not as slow as you look," smirked Sheogorath. He took a chair, sat down, and leered at me. "Yes, I brought you here. Why would he put you here anyways? Besides, he doesn't have the power to, let alone the motive. I suppose you're going to ask for a reason now, huh."

I gave it a bit of thought. Then I shrugged. "You know what, why not?"

"What, you're not curious about it?" he asked, frowning.

"I'm pretty certain I won't get a straight answer," I snapped back.

"But you will. Because that's part of the grand plan." He got up and picked up his cane from the floor. A dreamy look took over his expression. "You see, Lydia, do you know what is madness? Madness is many things. But one prime example is, say, taking a person from one world and putting her into another. Isn't that idea absolutely insane?"

"You're nuts," I couldn't help but say.

"Thank you," he said, giving me a mock bow. "I had to do it. The idea just struck me one day, that I should take someone and plant them in Earth for a period of time. It would be so amazing. To transcend borders and boundaries... the sheer shock and disbelief to the situation would drive any normal person insane. But not you." He nodded and stepped closer. "You have become suddenly very interesting. Very, very much interesting."

"Look -" I started, but he raised the cane to my lips.

"Do not interrupt my ramblings ever again," he hissed. "Or you will end up with your ears on your waist and your eyes on your toes. Got it?"

I gulped and nodded. He was ultimately a Daedric prince. They did that sort of stuff.

"As I was saying," he said, with a giggle that shot shivers up my spine, "You're very interesting. You embraced the wilderness much better than I thought you would. You're quite resilient, and you even managed to win a bet against the local embodiment of chance. That's Miss Fortune to you. Not only that, but you even managed to fight her off."

He looked at me. I looked at him. It was as if he could read my mind.

"Okay, so perhaps I was too harsh," he admitted, waving a hand. "It's too boring, talking to myself. Go on. Ask the question."

"What do you mean, fight off?" I blurted. Better to egg him on than be boring, I reckoned.

"You probably don't remember anything about it, do you?" he said. "Do you have a habit of running into things you don't comprehend?"

"No," I shot automatically.

"But your actions have proven the opposite, time and again," he laughed. "When you stepped into that portal, you laid your subconscious bare. Miss Fortune was trying to convince you to stay, even after losing the bet, except that this time she tried to speak into your subconscious, the sore loser. Of course, you needn't have worried. I was watching all along. I would have stepped in if you needed it."

"Thanks?" I ventured.

"Don't get me wrong," he snorted. He took hold of my chin with waxy fingers and gave me a toothy grin. "I'd only do it because the only one allowed to break you is me." He let go and turned away. I thought it best not to dwell on that too much, Daedric prince and all that. "But, surprise surprise, looks like someone had more mental fortitude than expected." He sighed to himself. "Yes, your subconscious fought back. And very interestingly, it took on the shape of the Dragonborn. And even more interestingly, you won." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Your trust for him is admirable, I'll admit."

"So what's all of that supposed to mean?" I asked, ever practical. Someone has to be, right?

"It means nothing, really," he said, and shrugged.

The door opened then to reveal a bellboy pushing a cart of food. He set the plates down on the table and left without a word.

"Go on, eat," he said. "You must be starving."

I was. While I ate, he helped himself to the tea and continued.

"Anyhow, you've lost weight," he noted.

"Can't say the same for you," I replied.

"Can't blame you, given the circumstances," he said, cocking his head to one side.

He wanted casual conversation. Awkward as hell, but me trip home relied on keeping him entertained. "How's the Dragonborn doing?" I said.

"I'm glad you asked," he said. He lowered his eyes and his voice went low. "To be honest, not very well."

"Wait, hold on," I said, recalling something, "before you go on, what about the Sanguine's Rose?"

"Hm? Oh, no, I had it from the start. I made the whole story up," he said. "I just needed an excuse to get you into the cave. The Dragonborn finds things based on Bethesda-given clues. You know, what with him being in touch with Bethesda, connected through wills and all. All I needed to do to get him some place was feed him the wrong information."

"Oh." Somehow, that was not beyond expectation. My poor nervous system probably had had enough surprises for the day as it was, and was in a defiant sulk. "Okay. Go on, then. The Dragonborn."

"Right. Well, he's been fretting away and yelling at me. I told him to calm down and have faith that you'd make it." He had finished the pot of tea without me realizing; he frowned and made a disappointed glare at it. "Because really, there's no fun in swooping you out of the desert when you've just gotten the hang of it. Had fun?"

It was my turn to snort. "Who, me? What sort of question is that?"

"Don't be like that. The traveller's life is said to be very fulfilling for certain kinds of people," he said. "Others grow mad in the desert. Others grow strong. Both are fine by me. Perhaps it would interest you to know that the Dragonborn is considering moving here."

I raised an eyebrow. Remember, Daedric prince of madness, I told myself, but it still set me on edge.

Sheogorath stretched his arms and tilted back on his chair. "I'm not lying. Here, he doesn't have to be the hero, and he doesn't have to be under Bethesda. Obsidian is awfully slack with its management, and you can really do whatever you please, as you've most likely noticed. The beauty of freedom!" He gestured to everything and nothing in particular, barely balancing himself. "And most likely he was thinking of bringing you, too."

"What? No thanks," I said, rolling my eyes.

"You tell him that then," he replied, smirking again.

"I will," I said firmly.

Even so, the Dragonborn, wanting to live here of all places? That was insane. It wan't possible. It wasn't even funny. I mean, yeah, the Tops was pretty comfortable, but it must cost a fortune to live like this. And the awareness that out there, there are people that struggle to merely quench their thirst, that would slowly drive you mad. The sheer gap between the two would be too much to take. It didn't help that I had been both at one point or another.

Then again, this was Sheogorath. That might have been the point of it all.

"Is this you trying to break me?" I asked levelly.

"This is me reasoning with you," he said. He put a hand up to his forehead in a mocking swoon. "Seeing you so oblivious to what he truly wants is making my heart ache."

"Look, I trust him. You know that," I said, folding my arms. "Can we go now?"

"Oh, what's the rush?" he said, waving his arms. "It's chaos back in Skyrim, don'tcha know. Enjoy the peace while you can."

My heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry, what chaos?"

"Bethesda's getting... angry," he replied, and for once his tone was sheepish. "You know how the Dragonborn destroyed the Dark Brotherhood while I covered for him? Well, Bethesda's been doing some audits on reality, and it showed up, despite my best efforts." He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. "I'm not going to sugarcoat it - the Dragonborn is in a lot of trouble, and when you return to his side, so will you be. He's getting trailed by dragons. They all come at him one at a time, but it takes its toll after a while, as you can guess. He's doing amazingly at fending them off on his own so far. You might end up a hindrance to him."

"Is there a reason for you not wanting me to go back?" I hissed. If anything, that made me want to go back more! He obviously needed help!

"It's true that I would definitely benefit," said Sheogorath slowly, "but believe me when I say that I'm doing it for your good. Listen, I want you alive, because your interests are the Dragonborn's interests, and his interests are mine. Even though I only have a fraction of my original power on Earth, it's enough to keep you safe. Back in Skyrim, I can't."

"Aren't you the Daedric prince of madness?" I sneered. "Surely you can do something."

"Will of Bethesda," replied Sheogorath with a defeated shrug. There was so much resignation in his tone that I kept quiet. "Direct assistance in combat is strictly prohibited. We simply can't. Magic pertaining to boosts in attack or defence and such cannot be targeted on him. Our ability to wield weapons fails if the target enemy happens to be attacking the Dragonborn. It's hard for you to imagine, but that's how the world works."

"Fine," I said after a while. "Then let me go to him."

"What do you think you can do?" he spat, tossing the teacup over his shoulder. It landed with a smash.

The solution was simple. It was so simple that even I was rather taken aback at how obvious it was.

"Would your magic work on me?" I asked.

I began counting silently, and had got up to ten before he spoke.

"Damn you," replied Sheogorath, the grin ripping off his tense look like wolf claws on tree bark, "you crazy bastard, you."

Here's to hoping - no, knowing - that the next time I write in you, it'll be back home. Because if not, someone is going to get it very, very badly.

Love,

Lydia


	32. Chapter 25

Dear Diary,

So much has happened today. It's as bad as Sheogorath said. Dragons show up to attack twice, thrice in a day. At least they leave our nights in peace. We barely managed to catch our breath and clean the ash off our armour before the next one comes, roaring bloody murder. And they always say the same thing:  
_  
"Dragonborn, you defy nature!"_

We had a reprieve when night fell. We talked around the campfire, as if nothing had happened; I told him about what had happened on Earth and he told me about what had happened in Skyrim. He had stopped taking loot altogether; he had stopped visiting towns to keep the dragons away from the civilians, and as he couldn't sell them, there was no point in carrying extra weight. He had new armour of Daedric design, soot black both from the colour of the metal and the scorch marks left all over. He had also improved tremendously with his maces. His blows were so much more stronger than before. All of that fighting must have honed his senses to an entirely new height.

I didn't tell him that I didn't want to go to Earth. He didn't tell me that he wanted to go. Somehow, I think both of us knew what the other was thinking, but we wanted to wait until the time came to deal with it. An unspoken agreement, a deal of trust, if you like.

But most importantly, I'm home, dear diary - I'm back in Skyrim, and I'm finally home. I'm with the Dragonborn, I've got Sheogorath's powerful magics imbued in my sword and armour, and I'm back on the path to save the world - I feel like I can take on anything, now that we're side by side once more. It's almost as if this was how it was meant to be from the start, and as ridiculous as it is, I have absolutely no doubt that we'll make it through. Bring it on, destiny.

Love,

Lydia


	33. Chapter 26: Epilogue

The Dragon Priest Shrine: a dilapidated shrine within the Bromjunaar Sanctuary, hidden in what is today called Labyrinthian, south of Morthal. It is the only place in Skyrim to exhibit duality - it is present in the plane of existence known as Skyrim, while being completely separated from it, transcending both location and time. It was all that remained of the unnamed city that worshipped dragons in the First Era, where the people lived under perpetual persecution at the hands of the dragon priests, and at the same time, _is_. The immense history, raw power and nature of the place has made it the weakest link in the tapestry that forms reality: it is where, given the right conditions, a person could leave the realm of Skyrim, as well as its boundaries, limiting laws and restraints, while being perfectly unharmed.

The means of achieving this end: collect the eight dragon priest masks; the wooden mask that allows entry into the past form of the Dragon Priest Shrine, before its destruction; Konahrik, the final mask, and then destroying all ten with a single smash. The new mask pieced together from the fragments allows total manipulation of the area within Bromjunaar Sanctuary; that includes, naturally, the ability to stretch thin the border between reality and everything beyond.

Knowledge of this phenomenon is obscure, despite its momentous significance. It is something that not even Bethesda is fully aware of; then again, Bethesda's thought process is not exactly something to be compared as linearly as to the thinking of regular people. It is, as with Bethesda's will, simply reality, and understandable after research, but the means to conduct said research are far beyond man's capabilities, and even after obtaining knowledge of it, one would be wan to share it with the world - after all, tampering with reality is something only a lunatic would do.

Of course, there had never been anyone quite like Three Point One Four One Six, and Sheogorath felt that good things needed to be shared.

* * *

"Can you not wear that?" grumbled Lydia. "It's ridiculously creepy."

"It's good armour," said the Dragonborn reluctantly. "It's strong and it's got really good enchantments, too."

"Its previous owner was a rotting zombie," said Lydia, "and the only enchantment that thing needs is something to get rid of the smell."

The two made their way up the stony road that led to Shearpoint. It was a nice, sunny day, which meant that the two were walking half-blind in the glittering snow; their boots crunched, ankle-deep in it, while a mild breeze nipped the edges of their ears. They had fought off another dragon at the foot of the hill. They had deduced that they had earned themselves a few hours of peace while they sought after their third dragon mask, a certain Krosis at the top of Shearpoint. Three was wearing the one called Otar, and had been wearing it ever since he laid his hands on it; the one called Hevnoraak, he had deemed "pretty useless", and so there it sat in Lydia's backpack, along with the spare potions and weapons.

"So, this'll be the third, huh," said Lydia after a while. "Three down, five to go. And then... you're going to do something or other with Bethesda?"

"Yeah. Break the boundary, and try to get at its essence," said Three, rubbing his hands and blowing on them. "If Bethesda presides over Skyrim, then it's a safe bet to say that it'll be beyond the border. And when I get there, I'll try and reason with it, put an end to this nonsense. Maybe we can come up with a compromise."

"I still don't see why you can't just give him a message," said Lydia. "You know. Courier by Daedric prince."

"That's the thing," said Three, sighing. "They've all gone silent. Sheogorath's disappeared, and the other Daedra won't respond. And every other servant of Bethesda's with a mouth tries to kill us before I can say a word. If I had to guess, I'd say that Bethesda's deliberately keeping them at bay." He let his already easy pace degenerate into a crawl as they conquered the final steps. "There we go. We're here."

As with every other inch of ground on the mountain, Shearpoint was blanketed in white. Roughly thirty feet before them was a tall face of rock, curved inward, encircling a dulled metal box - Krosis' sarcophagus. As with the previous dragon priests, they revived once they were approached, usually shattering the lid rather than gently pushing it open. It was unnecessarily flashy, although one could not really expect sound logic from creatures who thought that dragons were gods worth worshipping - or, at least, so thought Lydia.

They unsheathed their weapons - Three with his maces, and Lydia's imbued greatsword. They shared several potions that would help with the fierce fight ahead. Dragon priests were, apart from being tough cookies that felt no pain, exceptional mages equipped to the teeth with thunder magic. Unlike fire, which simply hurt, thunder magic drained the strength from their limbs, rendering them weaker as the fight dragged on. There was no way around it but to stock up on resistance, and hope for a quick end.

"There's a word of power on that wall," said Three, taking a deep breath.

"Uhuh," said Lydia. "And?"

"Just so you know and all." Three gave the air a couple of wide swings. "There'll be the sound of drums and some chanting. Nothing unusual."

Lydia snorted, and Three could not help but grin.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Okay then."

Three walked up to the wall, Lydia following at a careful distance. The skies began to turn dark all of a sudden, as thick, rolling clouds manifested themselves from out of nowhere. A hiss filled the air as the wind picked up behind them. On the wall, etchings glowed and filled the surface, burning with elder magic. There were drums. There was chanting. And the glow of the etchings leaked out, like steam from a kettle, and twisted around the Dragonborn with the wind.

Just as the sounded started to die down, there was an almighty shatter, and Three turned around. As expected, Krosis had risen, and drew himself to his full height, towering above the Dragonborn.

"Dragonborn," he hissed, raising a pulsating staff, "you defy nature!"

"Yeah, yeah, you've told me before," spat Three, twisting as he slammed his mace into his side. It made contact, only for the musty fabric of his robes to slide past the mace head. There was a crunch as Lydia's sword came crashing from the back, landing itself in his shoulder, albeit to no apparent effect.

"Die," Krosis cackled, and a blast of lighting hit Three full in the face.

"Gah!" He quickly backed away. His eyes were throbbing, and his skin stung as if it were on fire. There was no time for pain, though; if he wanted to whinge, he would have to do it over Krosis' dead body. Three leapt back and focused. His heart began to pound rapidly and his chest constricted, as the primal rage within him stirred up and took hold of him. The pain diminished instantly, but Three did not notice - he was already back at his side, hacking at the priest madly.

Above them, the clouds brewed and gurgled with the beginnings of a storm. It was a merely a two-on-one battle, but the crackle of hot, charged magic, coupled with Three's increasingly hoarse battle cries, made the mountain peak seem like a battlefield of hundreds.

As Three sent blow after blow smacking into the undead, with him returning bolts of magic, Lydia ducked and danced around, searching desperately for an opening. She had tried to catch it on the head a few times, but it was too tall for her; a swing of that height would not be very powerful, and would only leave her open for attack. Hacking at its body did not seem to do much, nor it arms, and legs were out of the question - it was floating on its own.

_What a bother,_ thought Lydia, settling for a deep thrust at whatever her blade happened to catch. The tip tore into a sleeve and hit solid bone, scraping as it slid along the humerus. The dragon priest gave another hiss and swung its staff at her, knocking her on the side of the head.

"Lydia!" yelled Three, risking a glance over, only to fall as Krosis singed his arm with another blast.

"I'm fine," grunted Lydia, getting to her feet unsteadily. "Bastard, I'll make you pay for that!"

"No," replied Krosis, raising his arms, "today, you are the one who will pay."

Amidst the rumble of lightning came another growl. It was the distant roar of a dragon.

"Shoot," muttered Three, as the distant dragon no longer became distant, swooping down with a crash, kicking snow everywhere. It flapped its wings and roared, and Three found himself kneeling on the ground with one arm raised, trying to keep the fire out of his eyes.

"You defy destiny, Dragonborn, and you will pay," hissed Krosis. "Will you concede?"

"What do you think?" snarled Three. He raised his head and shouted, "_Wuld Na Kest_!" The Shout burst him into flight, flinging him right into the mouth of the dragon, double maces flaying its jaws upon contact. The dragon stumbled back in surprise; the Dragonborn took another well-aimed strike at its neck.

"Lydia! You handle the dragon while I take Krosis!" shouted Three, turning around. "Lydia?"

"A little busy here!" yelled Lydia, barely dodging an arc of energy. She made a low sweep at Krosis' waist; it glided back, and she missed completely.

"Your fight is with me!" said Three, barreling into his side, shoulder first. "Come on! Is that all you got?"

"It is all your friend can take," said Krosis, and with an evil grin, he pointed his staff at her and discharged a ball of magic that landed squarely on her neck.

"I... can't..." moaned Lydia, before collapsing into the snow.

"Tch!" The tables had turned. Three did not have to think very much to take stock of the situation - his opponents were a dragon and a dragon priest. Not very hard to miss. A look into their life gauges told him that the dragon priest was half-defeated; the dragon, unfortunately, was still considerably well, and both still had a lot of punch in them. He spat as they stared at each other, and gave his shoulders a roll. It would be all right. The odds were not pretty, but they were manageable, and at least Lydia would have time to recuperate. She had fallen temporarily; Bethesda's will kept her from dying unless she was further attacked, and the only one who could do so was Three. And he had no intention of doing that whatsoever. She had potions on her, but using them would only put her back in danger. For once, he decided, it was better to let Bethesda's will take its course. "Stay down, Lydia. Rest up, and I'll cover you until then."

With the experienced flick of a wrist, he downed a few flasks of potions, and gripped his maces with renewed vigour.

"_Su Grah Dun_," he hissed, and lunged at them. The weight of his weapons vanished as the power of the Shout imbued them with the speed of wind, and before Krosis could say another word, Three had crippled one of the dragon's wings with a flurry of blows.

"You defy nature," hissed Krosis, swinging in a neat, downwards chop which Three just managed to hold back with his maces crossed. "You defy destiny, and you will be punished."

"Try me!" Three shoved forward , pushing back the staff. A sea of flames rose to meet him from behind. He ignored it completely and rushed forward, maces glistening with the blackened stain of cooked blood. The dragon priest was no match for Three's speed; it was less of a spar than it was one side dancing in a flurry of swipes, and the other trying to knock off one in every four hits, with marginal success.

"You are foolish, Dragonborn," said Krosis, between the clanging of metal upon metal, metal upon bone, and the roar of bathing fire.

"I'm not the one about to die," sneered Three, a fresh wave of blows glancing off a well-placed staff block.

"You are correct," said Krosis, grinning as he breathed death into his nostrils. "That would be your companion."

"What?" Three twisted his head. "_Fus Ro Dah!_" he screamed, clearing away the flame that shrouded him with the blast of force. It rippled across the bare ground and slammed into the jaws of the dragon, resulting in the faint crack of its jaws widened ten degrees too many. The effect would have interested Three greatly, if not for the sinking dread filling his heart all of a sudden.

Behind him, as he recklessly fought on, had arrived a second dragon, and Lydia was fending it off with the last of her strength.

If he had paid more attention, he would have noticed the emptied bottles lying in the snow where she had lay. But all he could see was her and the dragon.

Her, stumbling about, dragging the greatsword, which had became too heavy for her to wield properly, in careless, almost lazy swings that merely bounced off the dragon's scales. The dragon, trying to get in front of her, as she spent all of her focus on keeping to the side of its head - as powerful as they were, they were clumsy, and nothing irritated them more than the speck of something flickering in and out of their blind spots.

Her, finally ditching the greatsword, and withdrawing one of the spare swords from her inventory: a beautiful, unused dwarven sword.

The sword, falling, as her grasp gave way, and the wave of fire that engulfed her from the side, hiding her from sight, a stream that drowned her frail figure. It licked at the second dragon, who gave an angry bellow at the first.

When the fire dissipated a second later, Lydia was face-down on the ground.

Three yelled and rushed over. He struck at the second dragon with a single swoop that caught it on the side of its head, knocking it away. He fell to his knees and took hold of her. It was not a pleasant sight. Her face was singed and deep red. He could smell burnt hair and flesh as he drew her closer, as his breath quickened and his eyes widened, as he felt something clench around his heart. Her lips were bleeding. She was not moving or responding, despite his pleas and sobs in her face. No matter how much he shook her, gave her cheeks a gentle slap, begged her, she would not stir.

_My fingers are numb, _he thought._ That's right. They're too numb, from all the fire and frost, and they're shaking too much. Of course. That's why you couldn't feel her pulse. That's why there's no breath from under her nose, because you can't sense it. Yes. It has to be. She's not dead. She's not dead. She isn't. She can't be! She isn't!_

Even then, as his mind crumbled, he knew what he saw - precisely, what he could not see. Lydia's life gauge had disappeared from view.

The subsequent battle was a blur. Something had overcome him to drive him back into fighting. It was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was not the blood-boiling trance of a berserker's rage, nor the mind-numbing, vacant feeling of Bethesda's overriding will. It was desperate, conscious, yet in a cold, hollow way that he could not quite explain nor felt the need to. It was clammy, yet not really there at all. There was no anger, no sorrow, no disappointment or disbelief. That was the closest he could get to describing it, and he was almost right, for it was the void of hopelessness.

There was no vengeance in his strikes, only force. The fire had died out completely from his eyes. There was no motivation, only energy.

And it was that that worried Krosis, because in the next moment, he had killed the two dragons. Gripping their necks with one arm, he drove his mace into their skulls with the other, in stiff, unstoppable fashion, shrugging off the surges of magic that coursed through his body.

All about the Dragonborn, the dragons' souls swirled, entering and enriching his essence. He did not pay them any mind. One step at a time, he shuffled forward to an unmoving Krosis, leaving behind the silence of death.

"Why her?" asked Three, not looking up.

"She is your companion," spat Krosis. "You defied destiny, and she followed along with you."

"The one you wanted to punish was me. Why did you kill her?" said Three.

"She is also at fault," replied Krosis. "And if you had not rebelled, she would not have been caught up in this." Krosis leaned down and whispered in Three's ear. "It is entirely your fault. She is paying the consequences of your actions, Dragonborn!"

"Enough!" His arm lashed out with lightning speed, and Krosis slammed on to the ground. He barely had enough time to roll over when a boot pushed down, further grinding his head into the pool of melted snow.

"You defied nature, Dragonborn!" cackled Krosis, breaking into full-on laughter, amidst the sound of breaking bones. "You defied destiny, and now, you will pay the price!"

"Shut up!" roared Three, landing the final blow. There was the final crunch as the mace shattered Krosis' skull like a vase, and then there was nothing but the sound of strong breeze, and his own heavy breaths.

For the longest moment, the Dragonborn stood still, panting, as the winds raged on around him. The void did not recede.

He turned on his heels and staggered back to Lydia. His foot caught on a stray rock, and he tumbled, face first, with a splash. He picked himself up and went on, until he was by her side. She was still not moving.

He sat down, maces forsaken. He picked her up daintily and drew her head to his chest in am embrace, eyes squeezed shut. Even though the fires around him had died, the turmoil inside him was only just getting stirred up. He let it ravish his mind, the onslaught of sorrow, of loss. Memories of peaceful meals beside a campfire together flashed by, mingled with scenes from a deep, dark place he had never been in, with red, glowing eyes and crooked teeth pulled into deathly grins. Krosis, Otar and Hevnoraak circled him, their laughter filling his ears while the children from Honourhall Orphanage giggled and played tag. Alvor was standing before him, holding Dorthe, their eyes kind, and yet from their lips sang the accursed mantra, over and over again. _You defied nature. You defied destiny, and now, you have paid. _

He sat there, holding Lydia to himself, long after the heat from her body had faded, when his toes switched back into the system and pleaded with him to move, lest the blood run out of his feet and they fall off from frostbite.

Choking, his sight blurred, he laid her down and rummaged through her knapsack. He took out Hevnoraak, and a piece of cloth tumbled out with it. He had never seen it before. He unravelled it and held it up. It was a magnificent dress, rich maroon, and woven from Imperial silk. Judging from the creases, it had been sitting in there for a long time already.

Quietly, he put Hevnoraak away and unbuckled her armour. He took off her helmet, gauntlets and shoes, leaving her in a simple shirt and bloomers. The rest of her body was frightfully pale, compared to her face and neck, which had been exposed to the flames. With some difficulty, he dressed her in the fine clothes, tried his best to smoothen out the creases along her sleeves, and carried her over to the empty sarcophagus.

Upon close inspection, one realized that the sarcophagus was very well-made. It was plated with orihalcum on the outside, and a smooth sheet of curved black metal - dwemer metal mixed with obsidian, his knowledge told him - lined the inside, where the body was to lie. It was constructed for someone of truly great significance - it would do for now.

He laid Lydia in it, and stood back for another long moment. Nords were buried with their armour and weapons, but somehow, the idea of leaving her in the iron shell she had died in just was not very appealing. Perhaps she had wanted to die a warrior, but perhaps she had wanted to die a woman - most likely, she had not wanted to die at all, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"Please, rest in peace," murmured Three, clenching his fists, before crying out into the heavens with a wail that echoed across the valleys.

* * *

In the Pelagius Wing of the Blue Palace, Sheogorath sat alone at a tea table. There was a fireplace crackling on one side. There was no tea.

_It is over_, said Bethesda.

"Is it now?" asked Sheogorath, folding his arms. "What a surprise."

_You were foolish to try and defy me,_ said Bethesda. _You assisted him, and you will carry out your punishment._

"Foolish, or simply crazy?" snorted Sheogorath.

_Foolish_, replied Bethesda.

"You're no fun," replied Sheogorath, letting out his lip in a mock pout.

_I am not supposed to be_, replied Bethesda.

Sheogorath sighed and scratched the table with an index finger. "So, what now?" he asked at last.

_The Dragonborn will fulfill his destiny. You will serve your punishment. All will proceed as it is meant to be_, replied Bethesda.

"You know, he can just switch save states," said Sheogorath.

_He cannot_, replied Bethesda.

Sheogorath looked up. There was nothing but darkness beyond the meagre circle of light the fireplace cast, but he felt that the dramatic momentum called for it.

"I'm sorry?" asked Sheogorath.

_He cannot. He is no longer the focus player. He is simply the second save state. There is no previous save slot for him to return to, _replied Bethesda. _And he has realized it by now._

"Huh. Well, well. Who would have thought of that?" drawled Sheogorath.

_Even if he had a save state to return to, he would have to live through all of those months again, and the scenario would not change_, said Bethesda.

"You can't be sure of that," said Sheogorath, tapping a complex beat on the tabletop.

_I am_, replied Bethesda.

"Hmm." The beat went on its merry dance for two minutes, before Sheogorath finally spoke again. "How many dragons?"

_Two_, replied Bethesda.

"So basically you cheated," said Sheogorath, an inkling of irritation seeping into his voice.

_I did not cheat, _replied Bethesda. _Dragon generation is not scheduled, and there are no cooldowns or limits as to how many can exist within a period of time of one another._

"So you cheated," said Sheogorath, ending the beat with a slam that knocked the table over. The noise broke the quiet, and Sheogorath was up on his feet. "You cheated!"

There was no reply. Sheogorath cursed, picked up his chair, and threw it into the darkness, where it landed with a clatter. There would be no more replies. Bethesda had gone, leaving him to his solitary exile of a thousand years.

Sheogorath sat down on the floor and twiddled his thumbs. A thousand years, alone in the tea room, with no escape and no tea. Bethesda truly was merciless with its punishments.

Ah, well. It had been a long time ago since he had gone completely crazy, and it always good to return to one's roots.

* * *

_Your friend. The chosen one. He is saddened._

There was nothing in this realm. There was no description more accurate or beyond that simple statement.

_He is broken, through and through. It is not something he will recover from on his own. You are aware of this, I believe - the dead always can see things so much more clearer than the living._

_He must have truly treasured you, for him to be so broken. What a fatal bond you shared with him. I wonder what it feels like, to be treasured. You are a lucky girl. But of course you knew that. _

_I am not in the mood for making wagers, but I am willing to make you a deal._

_Take my mantle, and I will help him. I read your memories, and I see what he wants. He wants to be free. I can set him free._

_You will take up my mantle. You will forget everything, so that you may carry out your task dutifully. You will, perhaps, retain a shard of your personality, but I cannot guarantee anything beyond that. _

_I am basically asking you to trade your life for his. Of course, you don't have one any more - you could say this sort of deal is even more precious than once-in-a-lifetime.  
_

_Do you agree to these conditions?_

And from the nothingness came a reply:

_Yes._

* * *

It was a bright, sunny afternoon in Perth, and there was no better way to spend it than being indoors, in front of a Playstation 3 console.

The boy hummed a little tune to himself as the machine warmed up. With the tap of a button, the wireless controller came to life, and he made the usual motions - selecting his profile, very cleverly named "AAA", and then selecting the games section, and then scrolling down to choose a save state to load.

"Huh," he said, as the screen displayed something he had not seen before. "Corrupt data, star hash hash asterisk hash slash et cetera. Huh."

It was mildly disturbing, but not a problem. His main save state was perfectly intact, it seemed, and besides, that old save state was roughly ten levels behind his current one. It was not a major loss.

He shrugged, deleted it, and proceeded to load the game, singing along as the choir of Skyrim launched yet again into the Song of the Dragonborn.

* * *

Sheogorath was locked away in the Pelagius Wing of the Blue Palace. He was stripped of all his power and company. His imprisonment term was meant to be a thousand years, but the world did not last that long. As his existence faded, some time in the four-hundredth-and-thirtieth year, he considered himself as having got off lucky, and, for the lack of a better word, died, smiling.

The people of Whiterun heard of Lydia's death a week after. They mourned for three days, and erected two plaques in her honour: one to hang in the Hall of the Dead, and one to hang in the Jarl's personal trophy room. It was in those three days that the people remembered her, not for being the Dragonborn's follower, but for what she usually did before that - how she had stood in guard as a housecarl, keeping watch night and day, how she had upheld justice, and how she had been deemed the kindest out of all the soldiers. Somehow, that only made the mood worse, but most of the town had gotten over it after frequent and copious degrees of drinking. They never did retrieve Lydia's body - the Dragonborn, it was said in hushed tones, had attended to her burial personally, and that was the highest respect a Nord could receive. It was enough.

In the months to come, Camilla and Aela found a common point to bond over. They became drinking companions, but this stopped when the habit started to threaten Camilla's ability to provide for her daughter financially. They still remained friends, and occasionally revisited the topic with glazed hearts and faint smiles.

Raven-wing fell into a deep depression; Gehari resigned after three weeks, saying that he just could not accept the idea of justice any more, after the senseless death of its biggest advocate. He spent the rest of his days as a baker, and over the years, developed a relationship with Raven-wing that lasted for five years. Insecurities and suspicions bogged it down; one day, Raven-wing burst out, "Aren't we just licking each other's wounds?", and that was the end of their romance, and the beginning of an awkward tension that never really healed. Both remained single until the day they died of old age.

Lilia, Lydia's sister, was devastated when she heard the news. She went into mourning, and wore black for three months. Word spread around town that she had lost a loved one, and Kerrigan, the blacksmith's assistant, visited her one day out of kindness. They got to know one another, and married after eight years of close friendship. They had three children: two sons named Cecil and Mensingnir, and a daughter named Dorothy.

Cecil wanted to be a housecarl. After a time of immense personal struggle, Lilia finally gave in, and let her son follow his dreams.

Aunt Angeltrack was never told about Lydia's death. It was for the best. She died in her sleep, at the ripe old age of eighty-nine.

M'aiq eventually heard about the death of Lydia, from one source or another, in the shady fashion of all his dealings with the world. He was said to have simply sighed and nodded.

* * *

In Texas, in a parallel world of Skyrim, was a Dragonborn similar to Three - a thieving green orc who wielded two maces. He was, by standards, far more successful than Three, having collected a much larger repertoire of Shouts. He was a member of the Thieves' Guild, and a member of the Dark Brotherhood, having completed countless missions for both of them with great benefits. His name was Darksong Carrigan, although his controller's name was Nick.

After ascending Shearpoint, he met with the same fate as Three had - in addition to the dragon priest, for some reason, there had been two dragons, and the fierce battle that had ensued had resulted with the death of his companion, Lydia.

Nick swore heavily at the screen and threw his joystick to the ground. He got up and stormed to his computer, where he lodged a complaint against Bethesda about how the game had been unfair by generating two dragons when there clearly should have only been one. He went on to the Skyrim forums online and made a thread about it. When he had simmered a little, he picked up the controller, took the most important loot off Lydia, and went to find Uthgerd to replace her.

Twenty more hours of gameplay later, Alduin was defeated, and the world was saved. Everyone lived happily ever after.

* * *

Soon after Lydia's death, a massive change took hold of Tamriel. It was a great severing, and Three knew the moment it hit him that something had gone awry. He found a quiet place to meditate, and slipped into a trance. There, he realized that Skyrim - his Skyrim - had been separated from Bethesda, somehow, some way - and that meant that he and the entire world was free at last. He would no more be possessed by an imposing will. He had finally become free.

Even so, it was a feeble existence that he eked out. The fact of the matter was that Lydia was dead, and with her death, everything had lost its meaning. There was no point in saving the world, and if that was case, what more was left? Saving the world was, after all, his sole purpose in life, his accursed destiny.

When the pain dulled, he realized that he could not live like this. It was a disgrace to Lydia's memory, and a complete let-down of everything she had stood for. With such self-encouragement, Three picked himself up and prepared himself for a lifetime of dragon slaying. Yet, strangely enough, after the great severing, the dragon attacks began to decrease, until there were no more dragons at all. Most likely it was because Bethesda had lost control over their realm, and nobody was sending dragons any more. The world had become free from the threat of dragons. Mission complete.

The civil war raged on, until the Emperor was killed, three years after the last reported dragon sighting. The many heirs to the throne began to squabble for power in typical fashion, and at once, the Thalmor troops were withdrawn from Nord land, each to their own master, as they amassed their forces for the sake of kingship. In a rare turn of events, Ulfric Stormcloak did not claim the throne; it was every citadel to itself, every Jarl the king of his own land. And thus Skyrim survived and healed, as the uneasy tensions between Holds dissolved in the light of trade and mutual understanding.

Nobody ever discovered who killed the Emperor, but the historians of Skyrim, in time, came to acknowledge him as the unnamed hero who ended the war. Three accepted their gratitude with humble silence, and took the secret to his grave.

Deleted, the second save state was no longer in connection with Bethesda. Only the faintest of its memories remained, deeply embedded within the chips and components that sustained the realm of Skyrim. However, that faint memory was enough to keep that world alive for another four hundred and thirty years; when Skyrim finally faded from existence, Three was there to watch.

His final words were: "I hope I've done you justice, Lydia," before the darkness swallowed him and everything else into oblivion.

He did not have a second companion after Lydia, and had lived a life of true loneliness. Even so, he died on the whole happier than he should have been, and there was not much else one could ask for.

* * *

Morgodore was left behind at the Tops. They had no idea what to do with him, so they evicted the creature - a merciful gesture, given how dangerous deathclaws were. He was left to wander the wastelands on his own. Tracing back his path, he returned to Sloan, his place of birth, and started a family nearby, just as a group of prospectors arrived with the hopes of kickstarting a quarry business.

He missed his owner, and thought of her fairly constantly. Even so, he never saw her again. Due to his upbringing, he was never hostile to humans; the same, however, could not be said of his descendants, who staged a takeover of the town shortly after Morgodore's death due to illness.

* * *

Six months before the advent of the Courier, the memories of the citizens of Earth were edited. They no longer saw the world with eyes of enhanced understanding; that was a right reserved, six months early, for the Courier.

When the Courier came about, he became the centre of the town talk - rare is the topic more juicier than the story of someone who had come back to life after being shot in the head. Before that, though, gossip was solely focused on the mysterious stranger known as Miss Fortune. She had never been this active, but now she was. Tales of how her timely assistance had turned the tables on raiding parties began to spread across bars and in salons. Usually downtrodden but good-hearted citizens told stories of how Miss Fortune had stepped in, taking out the ruffians that were about to rob, rape or do both to them with her magic Magnum. Ruffians that went around robbing and raping told stories about how Miss Fortune perpetually got in their way. It was soon circulated among the groups of neer-do-wells that if you were carrying a grenade, or a stick of dynamite, or anything plasma, Miss Fortune could and would make it go off, resulting in a lot more than a happy blast in the pants. This became a legend, and with legends, was often dismissed by younger upstarts, until a friend's friend, a friend, or one's own self, became living (more often than not, non-living) proof that the legend was true after all.

Miss Fortune became a sort of celebrity vigilante after a while, exalted as the younger sister of Lady Luck, some people claiming her to be the Lady herself. Some of the more superstitious gamblers carried lucky charms depicting her in their wallets, and swore to donate to charity should they win in her name. Children developed a game called "Lucky McLuckerson", where they would spin a bottle to determine who got to be Miss Fortune. The lucky one would have the power to make the others explode, but only if they were being mean to the others. If Miss Fortune told you to explode, you had to make a pose and fall to the floor, making suitable sounds as you did so.

Miss Fortune herself thought nothing of it. She was just doing her job, and following her calling: to favour the underdog and dispense justice across the wasteland. As the embodiment of the chance factor, she did not need to eat nor sleep, although she sometimes indulged in both every now and then. She was in usual commune with Obsidian, who treated her respectfully but warily, as a professional partner with possibly more influence than oneself.

She spent her days under the open skies, wandering around, listening for the call of duty. It was a fine job, and she was good at what she did. It occupied her most of the time. But when the fights were fewer, and she found herself drifting aimlessly, she would recall memories, memories which did not belong to her: of a beautiful world covered in snow and forest; of strange, loud syllables; of monsters, fire and dragons; of a strange, green man, whom she felt a twinge in her heart for, whenever she thought of him, for some inexplicable reason; and a little black book, with yellowed pages, written with a quill and ink, containing the innermost, precious thoughts of some person she was not, yet, was.

* * *

The people of Earth did not engage in stargazing. It was too fanciful a hobby, and besides, it left your neck wide exposed. If they did, however, they would have noticed a strange new thing - two, tiny specks, winking and flashing, on the verge of dying, yet ultimately there, lingering at the rim of the sky.

**The End**

* * *

**Acknowledgements**

My immense gratitude to Lockey, with whom I shared a flat and a Playstation 3 with for six months. Your generousity with the console opened up to me a world of awesomery; thank you for being such a good mate. Also, thanks to Binh, whose silly joke of a Dragonborn's diary sparked the idea of this story in the first place. You'll probably never know this, but if you happen to read this, well, now you know.

Special thanks to Bethesda, for creating a world with such captivating depth; I was never addicted to Skyrim, but I came pretty close every now and then.

Special thanks to Obsidian, for perpetuating a world so smeared in grey; the experience you gave me in New Vegas has altered my perception of character creation forever.

Thanks to my RL friend - you know who you are - for reminding me of just how powerful writing can be, as egoistical as it sounds.

Thanks to everyone who's left a comment, who's followed faithfully - I've tried to respond to as many reviews personally as I can without it getting awkward, but this section is for you. You have no idea how encouraging it is to get such a positive response, and I don't think I'd have followed through with this if it were not for the 63 (and, hopefully, counting) reviews in the box up there.

Last but not least, thank you, dear reader, for reading. If I've thanked you more than once, it's because you qualify for being thanked more than once. All I have left to say is: I hoped you enjoyed this as much as I did.


	34. Afterword

**Afterword**

This is a bonus chapter of sorts. Think of it as the author's interview at the end of a completed work, except that it's less of being interviewed and more of me running on by myself. This is the first time I've ever completed a multi-chapter work, so I'm pretty stoked - I do hope that you'll bear with me a bit. This'll probably be a look into the framework of the story, which may bring to light certain things you may not have noticed - or maybe it's just a mildly amusing glance into the workings behind the fic. I know that I enjoy those, at least, so I will now selfishly impose my own expectations of want on to you!

Nah, just kidding. It's here if you'd like to have a look at it, but there's nothing particularly new.

* * *

**WARNING**

The following afterword contains spoilers, and the author's own interpretation of events. If you wish to keep your own interpretation intact, please do! - just don't let me get in the way of that.

* * *

On the concept:

Three is based on my own playing style, but the idea to write a fic about him never occured until I saw this joke of a diary a housemate wrote, with an actual pencil in an actual notebook. It went something along the lines of:

dear diary, today i ate a mushroom and killed some bandits and went into a cave and went out of the cave and shouted and jumped and...

I laughed more than I should have, and shelved the idea away for later. After some reflection, I figured that I would definitely have to have him improve his grammar as he developed, but not only would that be a bit of a hassle, it was a risky start - while crippled language might have been funny, it would also be unreadable. So I settled on using Lydia instead, who I had a soft spot for.

On Lydia:

I wanted someone suitably snarky and spunky. Nords are tough cookies on the whole, but tough cookie isn't as entertaining or interesting as sassy girl. To me, Lydia will always be a girl - never quite a full woman, because she's young at heart. Well, that, and because she died at a fairly young age, but that was probably uncalled for. Writing in her voice took a bit of time to get used to. In the beginning, I wanted her snark to take on a Nordic twist, hence the referential descriptions using nirmroot and things. Her speech was also slightly more archaic-feeling, but as time passed, I decided to just settle for what came naturally.

The idea of making her a paragon of justice came fairly naturally, albeit not immediately. Her main role at the time was to snark the crap out of Three's outrageous behavior. Extrapolating that to a deep sense of justice wasn't hard, and was one of the best choices I could have made. Throw in some war-era backstory, and you've got a great character - I, at least, am very fond of her portrayal here.

The story started off with the beginning - lampooning, and the end - Lydia's death, in mind. Everything else came later.

In case any of you were wondering, yes, my Lydia actually did die like that - on Shearpoint, with a dragon priest and two dragons. I had never been so devastated at the death of a character before, but I was. It came as a bit of a shock, honestly. That was what fuelled the core of the story - how a companion can form a deep bond with the Dragonborn, and how far you can take said bond to (as creepy as it sounds).

On Three:

Not a lot to say, really. He was based on how I played, and 3.1416 was the name I gave him (in numerals, not words). When I first started Skyrim, I was gripped with a sense of awe at how amazing the game was, and I wanted to rub that into his personality - how amazingly awesomesuace it was to be the Dragonborn. But then that wouldn't last long, because every character needed a motive, and what better motive than that amazing pedestal, freedom...

On Bethesda:

Reading a fic about a Dragonborn playing out the exact same thing you yourself have done is boring. I'll be frank about it - it applies across for other games too. "Let's have Sora from KH play through the entire game, except this time, in text!" There's simply not much you can gain out of reading someone else's experience when you can go create your own, I feel - that's why the idea of making a gameplay-style fic which was, at the same time, _not gameplay-styled_ was so delicious to me.

DoaD's Bethesda, for all its perceived power, is actually but a fraction of the true Bethesda, which is the company that we know to exist in our world. DoaD's Bethesda is locally confined in that one disk, in that one PS3 in Perth. Usually, it gets its concepts confused - while it's in charge of potentially infinitely many parallel worlds, it is actually in charge of only five - Three's realm, a realm belonging to a Khaajit called Bestiality Steve, some elf called Runningfishman, something-or-other, and another someting-or-other. That tends to leave it a bit smug when it comes to ruling.

Well, that, and the idea of a sentient disc is ridiculous, but that turned out rather well anyways, didn't it?

The concept for Bethesda was one of the key aspects in writing the actual story arc. I wanted to walk the fine border between "this is a rehashing of the game with a tweeest" and "this is an actual story with actual characters". Judging from reactions, I'd say I managed a modest achievement of this (but feel free to tell me otherwise!)

On Obsidian, and the Fallout-verse:

The Fallout series is a lot more self-aware than Skyrim. I wanted to incorporate that, as well as the fact that it's precisely because of Bethesda's will that Skyrim isn't the ultra-dark, depraved, crapsack world New Vegas is, for irony points. I had planned for Lydia to enter New Vegas roughly around Chapter 5; certain choices of words from then on were set up as Chekov's Guns to allude to this.

It was a gamble, and I'm guessing quite a few of you were alienated when it took that direction. I tried my best to make this strange, new world accessible to you, so I apologize if I failed. However, it was something that simply had to be done, because the ending depended on it. Also artistic license, and cross-company shenanigans. One of the major themes was "the bond between Dragonborn and companion"; I like to think of this direction as a test of "the bond between the companion and the reader", whether my character building was enough to keep you hooked on.

On central themes:

There are several of them. I like to have them, because they keep the story connected.

There's _the bond between Dragonborn and companion_, which is why it's Lydia that makes the ultimate sacrifice at the end - in the original ending, Lydia didn't have a say in it. She was just going to be whisked away. But that wasn't very satisfying nor thematic. This is the true main theme of the story.

Then there's _Lydia's concept of justice_. Fairly archetypal, until_ Thesis in Limbo_ where she starts to question the relation of mercy and hypocrisy in the grand equation. I meant to have her doubt her sense of justice a lot more during the Fallout arc, seeing as that was the point of it - how to you enforce rules when anarchy is the most prevalent theme of the world? - but I didn't manage to put enough of that in for my liking.

And, of course, there's _destiny_, or the defiance of it. Later on, we'll look at chapters, and I'll show you that I'm not actually pulling these from nowhere, but it should be said now:

The Dragonborn's destiny is to save the world. By setting out on a journey to defy Bethesda and his destiny, he induced Sheogorath and Lydia, resulting in the Fallout arc, subsequent notice by Miss Fortune, and because of his actions of rebellion which drew Lydia to himself, she made the choice to let Miss Fortune "free" the world, which ultimately resulted in peace - in short, _despite his rebellion, the Dragonborn fulfilled his destiny anyways. _It didn't hit me until around the end of the chapter, but I felt a lot smarter when it did.

The idea of _taking responsibility for one's actions_ only came in much later, so I never really hammered it through, but that's okay.

There's also lampooning of game mechanics, which gave birth to the whole thing in the first place, but you know that already.

Other themes include family and friendship and one-sided love and dependance and plenty of things, all of which make fictional game characters that much more human.

* * *

Still here? Sweet.

Chapters 1 - 10: The Lampooning Arc, or Lydia Whinges

Pretty self-evident, and the hardest part to re-read (for me, at least). In which Lydia is established as a character, and Three is established as a loony.

Chapter 3, which looks at the idea of save states, is the first hint into the grand story arc. It's also the first attempt to tie in to canon gameplay - "I am sworn to carry your burdens" - and hint that the DoaD-verse is not exactly 100% story Skyrim, but increasingly game Skyrim. The quip about the experience being the result of a bad diet owes its philosophy to "A Christmas Carol", where Scrooge calls the Ghost of Christmas Past a bad piece of cheese. Rather funny thing to stick from the experience, but what have you.

Chapter 4 was based on the fact that I visited the College with the sole purpose for stealing alchemy ingredients. I had no intention of completing the quest, at all, and I never did.

Chapter 6's infinite arrow thing is an actual detail from gameplay, according to the Skyrim wiki. Give Lydia a single arrow, it is said, and she can use that arrow infinitely. Well, well.

Chapter 7 is yet more hints that this world =/= proper Skyrim. Dragons don't actually say "you defy nature" in game. But you probably know that already.

Chapter 9 is one of my favourites. The star thing still makes me smile a bit every now and then.

Chapters 11 - 16: The Story Arc, or The Plot Finally Begins, or The Strangest Dark Brotherhood Interpretation You'll See

This was based on my own want to kill the Dark Brotherhood. It's funny, though, that you actually can't in-game.

See, you agree to Aventus, and you kill Grelod. Then you're supposed to sleep in an inn and when you wake up, you'll find yourself tied in a cabin with What's-her-face. She asks you to kill one of three captives. You have the choice to kill her. If you do, then you can kill the Dark Brotherhood. If you kill the captives, you get accepted, and the Dark Brotherhood becomes invulnerable.

I'm sorry, what?

But hey, that's what fanfiction is for, nyer?

Chapter 11's endless sneak growth was introduced to me by a housemate. Aventus is in the room, crying, and you can sneak around outside as long as you like. Kinda a waste of time, but, eh, if you're serious about your Sneak, then you might want to take note.

Interlude 1 features the death of Alvor, which is what happened with my own gameplay, except that it was after Lydia had died. The thing is that Alvor has a wife and child which you meet right in the beginning of the game. That sort of thing... sticks, y'know?

Interlude 2 features the death of Narfi. I've never done a DB quest, but he's on the hit list, according to the Wiki. I never understood why, so I wanted to put some of that in.

Interludes 3 and 4 introduce Sheogorath, and the whole "this world is real" thing. I have not played Oblivion, so everything on the Hero of Kvatch was taken from the Wiki. I did find it very interesting, though, so in it went. Again, I didn't know anything about him first-hand, so I based Sheogorath's personality on Discord from MLP:FiM - seemed to be a close enough fit. I don't know how accurate I got him, but he was fun to write.

Chapter 13 has Lydia being an absolute girl. The anime community would probably call it "tsundere", which is kinda what I was going for.

Chapter 14 features M'aiq. M'aiq does not actually talk in negatives, he just says mumbo jumbo. I couldn't really use that to my advantage, though, so I took some liberties with him.

Chapter 15 was based on my own experience. Some time around level 10, I only had Fus. I went mountain climbing - hopping, really - and when I got to the top, I looked down upon the world, and shouted across the heavens. There was no particular reason why, except that it felt awesome to do so.

Interlude 5 to Chapter 23: The New Vegas arc, or This is Not a Crossover

The Fallout chapters... eh, well, they're my least favourite, despite me liking the Fallout-verse more than Skyrim. I had a harder time putting emotion into her words with this part. Perhaps it was because she was following a set path, which caused restraints on the tone overall? Mmm, well.

All throughout the chapters, Lydia's 10 points in Luck come to her aid. This made things a lot easier to write, although that wasn't part of the plan.

Chapter 18 focuses on just how different the Mojave Wasteland is. The quote: "War... war never changes" is one of the most famous lines from Fallout, on account of being in every ending, and is right up there on my list of Best Quotes Evar.

Chapter 19 introduces an ultra-dark moment. Death isn't ultra-dark, per se, but rape and helplessness are. This segment was injected rather than planned; I felt that I needed to plunge Lydia into something really serious to get her journey kickstarted. As cruel as it sounds, it's only when bad things happen to characters that the plot progresses.

Chapter 20 is the obligatory feel-good moment, because Lydia would probably go insane if she didn't have at least some company. No, you can't have deathclaw pets in the actual game, although there are mods for that. It's also a setup for a tie-in to canon: Sloan, during the Courier's time, is a quarry overrun by deathclaws.

Chapter 21 is more tie-in to canon. When you reach Black Mountain, you realize that Rhonda is broken. Lydia arrived roughly a year before the advent of the Courier, and Rhonda wasn't broken, but ended up becoming broken...

Interlude 6 is, bluntly put, an exposition dump. Interlude 7 tries to remedy that by turning it into some glorious hero moment. They positively reek of artistic license. They're almost filler, the way they're written; that's why I released them on the same day, so that you people wouldn't have to wait a day to read what is essentially a patching up of plot.

Chapter 24, 25: Getting Ready for the End

Essentially the big reveal, and the optimistic note of Chapter 25 was there to make the end come as more of a shock. Because that's what it is - the death of a loved one is always a surprise, and I wanted the reader to feel that. Which is why Chapters 24, 25 and 26 were released with only a day's gap in between, rather than a week.

Chapter 26: The End

What can I say? By the time I reached here, everything had already been planned out. All that was left was to write it down. I'm actually pretty happy that this thing managed to reach 50k words; somehow, 50k is the optimum number for me.

The Dragon Priest Shrine is a very interesting place. I never managed to get that far, but it was worth using, so in it went.

As mentioned before, 2 dragons, totally legit. It happened. And Lydia died. Lydia getting back up to fight the second dragon wasn't planned, but it was a good direction to take. Krosis actually says something, but I couldn't be bothered to try and make it fit, so I just had him repeat his mantra.

"You defy nature, you defy destiny, and you will pay" - it was planned from Chapter 7, because of the irony of how it wasn't the Dragonborn who paid, per se, but Lydia, with the cost of her life.

This was also an exercise in trying to come up with new words for "slammed". I think I did pretty well.

There were actually a few possible endings for Sheogorath. One involved him sealing Lydia, and forcing the Dragonborn to exchange his vitality for her freedom. Sheogorath would then go on to rebel against Bethesda and lose. The Dragonborn would seek for the dragon priest masks, in a bid to appeal to Bethesda, but Lydia would die anyways because Bethesda is cruel like that.

Another involved him rebelling with the Dragonborn, only to double-cross him as Bethesda took over complete control of him.

Then I figured that Bethesda was ridiculously efficient and swift, and doing so let me give Sheogorath an ending that was truly "him" to the end - how he considers himself as having got off lucky for serving less than half of his sentence.

Also as mentioned, there was an option to have Lydia be forcefully recruited into Miss Fortune's role. It was a horrible thing to do to her, though, and it would make the whole thing seem hollow. It's always better to have your characters' actions _matter_.

The part about the boy in Perth was planned from the start. So was the part about Nick in Texas. It was meant to be a cruel juxtaposition how "fulfilling one's destiny" was not necessarily the best ending - how you can have people like Nick be "winners" in the game despite not having an ounce of emotion in their gameplay, and how the ones with emotions, despite failing, can often be the ones who gained the most out of their experiences. Now I'm not saying that we have to invest emotionally in everything; I just wanted to show how there really are people who don't care at all about their companions. There was an option to make Nick's part the final part, as a means of highlighting the juxtaposition rather than Lydia's fate, but I decided on the soft ending instead.

The rest of the epilogue bits were more or less done on the spot. There was another option to make Skyrim disappear, instantly, because the boy in Perth accidentally spilled a glass of water on the console, but, eh, nah. It was more fulfilling to let the world heal on its own. Less bittersweet and more, well, sweet.

I added two more bits to the original chapter: Morgodore's part, and Lydia's parents. Have a look at those if you haven't yet. Morgodore's part ties in to Fallout canon, as planned; Lydia's parents was more of a heart-warming touch finale than anything, and I'm not sure whether it was right to put it as the final paragraph compared to Lydia's own.

Lydia's ending was meant to be like that from the start, with her holding faint memories. It's a nice ending, I feel.

And yeah, I really couldn't quite let go of the whole "stars at the rim of the sky" thing, because, and forgive my pretentiousness, it is one of the most beautiful things I've ever handled.

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So that's it, folks! Once again, thank you for reading. Stay tuned; there may or may not be a DoaD After Story thingemabob, depending on how many ideas I can come up with.


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